


The Tontine

by tumbleweedchaser



Series: The Secrets of John Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Original, BAMF John, Case Fic, Gen, Graphic Violence, John is a Bit Not Good, Military, TRF Aftermath, Trigger warning - descriptions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumbleweedchaser/pseuds/tumbleweedchaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John take on a new case that brings John's military history and secrets to the table. The detective is forced to understand that there is a great deal more to John than jumpers, tea, and a love of adrenaline. (Takes place after the Reichenbach Fall, no Mary. There is no smut in this part of the trilogy and it can easily stand alone.)</p><p> ---------<br/><i>Sherlock looked to John, eyebrows furrowed, "You have higher security clearance than my brother?"</i><br/><i>John licked his lips, eyes flicking from one Holmes brother to the other, both staring at him with equal ferocity and confusion, "Well," he said, "Technically, due to the nature of... yes."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eugine O'Brian

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So I've never written fanfic before, but I do so love the Sherlock series (and I'm a big Johnlock fan). This story is meant to be more of an action/new case piece, but I may not be able to stop myself from adding some romance (we'll see).
> 
> Will try to update weekly, expecting 12 chapters total. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!!

Sherlock laid across the length of the couch, wrapped in his dressing gown, fingers steepled beneath his chin.  
  
"Bored," he proclaimed to no one in particular.  
  
John ignored his flatmate, taking his tea from where it rested on the arm of his chair and sipping as if he hadn't heard.  
  
"Bored," repeated Sherlock.  
  
John turned the page of his frankly boring mystery novel.  
  
"Bored!"  
  
"I heard you the first time," John said, shutting his book and staring out the window instead, focusing on the bustle of Baker Street below.  
  
"How do you do it?"  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Live your extraordinary dull life without killing yourself?"  
  
John winced, frowning down into his tea.  
  
Sherlock furrowed his brow for a moment, "Bit not good?"  
  
"A bit."  
  
"Still angry?"  
  
"I..." John sighed, "I'm still surprised to see you sometimes is all."  
  
"Honestly John, it's been three months."  
  
"You were dead for two years," John spat back.  
  
Sherlock caught his glare and deflected by staring at the ceiling, "I _am_ sorry, John."  
  
"I wouldn't be here if I hadn't already forgiven you," John said, jaw tense. Sherlock could see he was uncomfortable discussing the topic further. He swung his lanky legs to the floor and quickly got to his feet, "A new case!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I need a case."  
  
John cocked an eyebrow, released another sigh along with the tension in his jaw, "Not your worst idea."  
  
Sherlock sat in the chair at his cluttered desk and opened his laptop. He browsed eagerly through the submissions, hoping to find something that might serve to distract both John and himself from the tension and boredom which threatened to suffocate them. He scrolled through the emails waiting for his attention.  
  
 _Affair. Neighbor. Secretary. Brazil. Mad squirrel. Affair. Affair. Insurance fraud. Affair with Secretary._  
  
"Dull."  
  
John chuckled, drawing Sherlock's attention from the computer. He was caught off guard at the sight of John watching him from his armchair, his breath caught in his throat at the simple scene before him. John's blond hair seemed to glow in the sunlight, his too-old jumper sat askew on his shoulders, his horrid book thrown off to the side, tea empty, eyes focused on Sherlock. The detective quickly broke his eyes away and back to the screen of his laptop.  
  
"You could text Lestrade," John suggested, "Maybe he's got something? Or even-"  
  
"Do not suggest I contact my brother to beg for work."  
  
"Alright."  
  
"Here we are," Sherlock said, clicking on a hopefully not-completely-boring case, "Missing husband."  
  
"Affair?"  
  
Sherlock half grinned, "Not likely."  
  
"Insurance fraud?"  
  
"Military man, late thirties, nothing missing."  
  
"Aside from the husband?"  
  
Sherlock shot a sarcastic glare at John, "Nearly a month without contact, signs of break-in and a struggle at the apartment."  
  
"So what, army bloke was kidnapped?"  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
"Police?"  
  
"Seem to be stumped, though that's hardly surprising."  
  
John got up from his armchair, "Right, where do you want to start?"  
  
"Obvious."  
  
"The wife?"  
  
"Don't make me repeat myself."  
  
Sherlock stood and retreated to his room to dress himself. He could hear John busy himself, cleaning out his cup and pulling his jacket on. The good doctor stood ready and waiting when Sherlock returned. Soon they were hailing a cab on Baker Street, wrapping their coats closer to themselves against the cold January air, beginning what would become perhaps the most surprising and perplexing case to fall unto Sherlock Holmes.

#  
  
  
John followed the detective out of the taxi and up the stairs of an old, but nice building. Sherlock stopped at the door of a third floor apartment and knocked.  
  
"How do we know she's home?"  
  
"Don't be stupid John, where else would she be on a Saturday?"  
  
He gave a curt nod, "Right."  
  
"Mrs. O'Brian?" Sherlock called with another knock.  
  
"O'Brian?" asked John, crossing his arms.  
  
"Should I refer to her as something other than her last name?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Uh, no, I just--"  
  
The door swung open and a mousy woman looked them both over, "I knew you'd come, Mr. Holmes."  
  
"You said they left a message?" asked Sherlock, not bothering with introductions or even to enter the flat.  
  
"I thought if I was vague I'd get your attention," she said, staring up at him, "Did it work?"  
  
John cleared his throat, "I'd say so. Can we see the message?"  
  
"Come in," she said, opening the door wider and leading them into the living room.  
  
The message was clear.  
  
Across the pristine white wall and photos of the happy couple were large, neat, blood-red, painted words. 

**I have the treasure, but where are the keys?**

John took in the words instantly and took great pains to hide the gut wrenching blow he felt when his eyes fell upon the picture of the missing man.  
  
"Mrs. O'Brian," asked the doctor, "What's your husband’s first name?"  
  
"Eugine," she answered. She looked at him with desperate eyes, "He's a good man, a good husband, I don't understand what--" Tears began to well up in her eyes and her voice caught as a sob forced its way up. "Please," she choked out, turning her attention to Sherlock, "find him?"  
  
John bit his bottom lip and turned his attention away from the woman and back at the foreboding red letters.  
  
"I think the ransom is fairly obvious," said Sherlock, with a small, light handed gesture to the wall, "Where are the keys?"  
  
"I don't know what keys they're talking about," she said, brushing away tears and shaking her head.  
  
Sherlock's gaze on her was like stone, but John could see that his flatmate's eyes and mind were busy taking in all the information he could gather from the tiny details on the woman and her home, he was giving her a second glance as if he'd missed something at the doorway.  
  
"We'll do everything in our power," John said, trying to comfort the woman, "Won't we Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes, we'll take the case."  
  
  


 

#  
  
  
Sherlock played a strained, random note on his violin and looked down at the empty street, Baker Street certainly did clear out at night. The detective whirled around and pointed the bow, like a sword, at John, "You recognized the name."  
  
John, who was once again settled in his armchair next to a warm fire in the hearth, with rotten book and warm tea in hand, looked up at Sherlock, clearly confused.  
  
"O'Brian," said Sherlock.  
  
"Is there a question in there somewhere?"  
  
"Did you know him?  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Don't be stupid, John."  
  
"Eugine O'Brian?"  
  
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, annoyed with John who was clearly feigning stupidity.  
  
John gave a small nod, "I served with an O'Brian, but he wasn't a Eugine."  
  
Sherlock turned on his heel with another note on the violin and returned to glaring out the window.  
  
A phone rang. John's phone.  
  
Sherlock took a quick glance at his watch. _John doesn't get calls at 11:46 at night._ He flopped down on the couch and pretended to stare into the fire while plucking at the strings of his violin. He watched John answer the phone.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
 _Confusion. Wrong Number._  
  
"I see."  
  
 _Anger? No...bad news?_  
  
"..."  
  
 _Nothing._ Sherlock blinked, he'd never seen John's face become so stoic, the man's shoulders had straightened as well, he was sitting up taller, no part of him was moving. He didn't even blink.  
  
John slowly brought the phone from his ear and tapped to the end the call. He stared out toward the window, as if he'd forgotten he was in 221B Baker Street.  
  
"John?" Sherlock asked, his voice shakier than he'd expected, but John's behavior was unsettling. The man sat like a void, no emotion seeming to register.  
  
"John? Is everything-"  
  
He seemed to jump to life, like he'd just needed a reset. The doctor shut his book and gave Sherlock a smile, "It's late," he said, "think I'll head to bed." Sherlock watched silently as his flatmate stood, cleared his tea away, and slunk away to his bedroom as if nothing had just happened, all the while never letting his phone go.

 

#  
  
  
John didn't sleep. He'd sat, shaking, on the edge of the bed the entire night. He'd never thought he'd hear that voice again. Given, it was older now, colder, but he recognized the man instantly. How long had it been? Was it really only eight years ago?  
  
There was a knock at the door and he heard Sherlock greet, in his own way, a guest. It didn't take long to recognize Lestrade's voice. John grabbed a fresh jumper and changed quickly, though he doubted it would fool his flatmate's spectacular mind.  
  
"Got something for you," he heard the DI say, "Bit of a gruesome one."  
  
"Go away Lestrade," Sherlock retorted, still plucking away at his violin, "I'm already on a case."  
  
"Oh please, Sherlock, it'll only take you an hour to get to the crime scene and back with a solved case."  
  
"Flattery?" scoffed Sherlock, "Must be desperate."  
  
Lestrade blew a frustrated sigh from his nose.  
  
"Good morning," said John, as he reached the bottom of the steps.  
  
"Can you reason with him?" asked Lestrade, "We've got ourselves a mutilated military man and the great Sherlock Holmes can't be bothered to--"  
  
Sherlock sprung from the couch, "Did you say military?"  
  
"Queen and country, yeah."  
  
"Have you I.D'd him yet?"  
  
"Name of Eugine O'Brian, went missing--"  
  
"About a month ago?" finished John.  
  
Greg eyed the two of them, confusion drawn all over his face. John puckered his lips in annoyance, "We're already on the case."  
  
"How long?" asked Sherlock.  
  
"What?" asked Lestrade.  
  
"How long has he been dead?" Sherlock seemed to be glaring at the DI, as if he could frighten the answer out of him.  
  
"Anderson thinks about--"  
  
"No good, John, get dressed."  
  
"I am dressed."  
  
Sherlock looked at him, furrowing his brow, as if about to question John concerning the freshness of his clothes. John crossed his arms and glared at him, daring the consultant to speak.  
  
"Well," said Lestrade, glancing back and forth between doctor and detective, "Shall we head to the crime scene then?"  
  
"After you," said John, tearing his gaze from Sherlock to give the DI a polite smile.  
  
  


 

#  
  
  
Sherlock leapt up the stairs of 221B to enter the flat. That crime scene! It was a work of art! Though he didn't say it out loud, lest he anger John; but truly, it was the work of a master. Each cut and slice perfect, each bone broken cleanly, the body left perfectly clean.  
  
The former soldier had no doubt been tortured, at least a hundred perfect slices across his body in delicate design but done with such care that he hadn't died from blood loss. The arms broken, twice each, the hands and feet nailed to the ground as if on some fallen cross. The case was growing more interesting by the minute.  
  
John had seemed a bit green, but it was a more ceremonial kill than the war or their work had ever shown him. It was no doubt to be expected. Dead for just six or seven hours, just a few hours after beginning the hunt for the missing man. Coincidence? Not likely.  
  
He opened the door to the flat, and grimaced at the sight of his brother sitting in his armchair, umbrella propped up beside him. "Mycroft," said Sherlock, allowing a hint of disgust to linger behind the name.  
  
"I have a case for you," said the elder Holmes.  
  
John stepped into the flat, shoving a bit past Sherlock to get inside. Sherlock pushed aside the warm feeling of John brushing against him, cataloging it for another time.  
  
"Not interested," Sherlock said flatly.  
  
"Liar," replied Mycroft.  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but Myrcoft cut him off with his sickeningly sweet trill of a voice, "You're already on the case."  
  
"Eugine O'Brian?" asked John.  
  
Mycroft gave John a polite smile and a nod, "Very good, Dr. Watson."  
  
"What interest is he to the government?"  
  
"O'Brian was special operations, though his record of services seems to be so special in fact even I can't seem to find a complete copy."  
  
"So you're just taking precautions then?" said John.  
  
"Something like that," Mycroft answered, "There was another message left, just this morning." He picked up a file and held it out for his brother, but Sherlock stubbornly refused to do anything but glare. He saw John shake his head a bit and then retreat to the kitchen to put on the kettle.  
  
Mycroft returned the file to it's spot on the arm of the chair and stood, "I'll just leave it here then."  
  
Sherlock stood in front of the door, and only moved enough to let his brother pass. As soon as he heard his brother make the descent and exit 221B Baker Street, he rushed to the file. It was simply a picture, an 8X10 gloss of a brick wall, an address on the back. Across the bricks in large, neat, red painted letters it read:

**I hope you liked my gift, old friend.**

**Where are the keys?**

>>>


	2. Gerald Atwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot that I become obsessed with finishing projects once I start them. So here's chapter 2 ahead of schedule!!

Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly when he heard John scream. The nightmares were getting worse. John had shown signs of the nightmares continuation after his return, but ever since O'Brian's body had appeared... no, ever since the phone call the night O'Brian's body appeared the dreams had become worse. They were enough to make John wake with much more than just a gasp, instead summoning screams and once a mad dash to the toilet to heave.  
  
 _Three weeks._  
  
No more additional notes. No more kidnappings. No more bodies.  
  
 _Three weeks._  
  
Who kidnaps, tortures, and kills a retired soldier for a ransom the family of said soldier cannot identify or produce?  
  
 _The message isn't for the wife._  
  
John stepped into the living space, wrapped in his terry cloth dressing gown. He gave a sort of acknowledging grunt towards Sherlock. The detective read this as, "Still up then?" Sherlock pretended to ignore his flatmate, which always seemed to be John's preferred response from Sherlock when he was prematurely woken by his nightmares.  
  
John put the kettle on and rubbed the sleep from his eyes and the sweat from his brow. He ruffled his hair and waited patiently for the kettle to complete its task, but his body was still tense as if ready to defend from a threat. He fiddled a bit with the phone in his dressing gown pocket.  
  
John never seemed to be without his phone any longer. It was always within reach, as if he was expecting another phone call. When it did ring, John would read the name of the caller with the same look on his face ordinary people might have when opening a door which might lead to a corpse. Sherlock had attempted to bring up the subject, but John was always quick to change the topic. The doctor had even managed to find four somewhat interesting cases in the past two weeks, as if trying to keep Sherlock occupied on something other than the dead soldier.  
  
"When's the last time you ate?" John asked.  
  
"You made me eat toast this morning," Sherlock replied.  
  
"You mean yesterday morning." John opened the fridge, not hiding his grimace at the contents. "Yesterday's carry out should be fine, I'll heat it up."  
  
"Not hungry."  
  
"Don't care."  
  
Sherlock sulked while John busied himself reheating the chow mien and preparing tea. He did his best to look displeased when John set the food and tea on the kitchen table, but still went to join him at the table where John had delicately moved aside Sherlock's experiments to make room. He sat with a huff and took up the fork.  
  
John glanced at him, "Thank you."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"Eating."  
  
Sherlock scoffed, "I don't know why you insist on trying to care for me like a child."  
  
"There are lots of reasons," John answered, "I'm a doctor, you're a welcome distraction to my problems, you'd let yourself starve if I didn't, you're my friend and I want you to be healthy, because I can't lose you again." He coughed and looked away, having said too much, "Pick any reason you like," he finished weakly, stabbing his fork into his food.  
  
Sherlock stared at his flatmate for a moment and then tried to distract himself with the food in front of him. They ate silently and Sherlock pushed aside his thoughts of John to focus on the unsolved case.  
  
 _Dead soldier, missing keys, confused wife - telling truth, torture, old friend, phone call?, treasure, keys, treasure._  
  
"Treasure," said Sherlock.  
  
John looked up, confused, "I'm sorry, what?"  
  
"One Treasure, multiple keys, military man."  
  
John gave a small shake of his head and licked his lips, Sherlock filed it away for later observation.  
  
"John," he explained, "it's obvious, how did I not see it?"  
  
"See what, exactly?"  
  
"A tontine."  
  
"Been watching Star Wars?"  
  
"Not astrology, pay attention," Sherlock chastised, "a tontine."  
  
"What's a tontine?"  
  
"It's an insurance scheme. A group of individuals each put a set amount of money into an investment. As each member of the group dies, their share is sent to the other remaining members."  
  
Sherlock watched John's face as he processed the information, "So last one standing gets the money?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"I thought you said this wasn't insurance fraud?"  
  
"It isn't, it's greed."  
  
"You think Eugine O'Brian was tortured and murdered for a stock investment?"  
  
"People have done worse for less."  
  
"Have they?"  
  
"It's not a stock investment John," said Sherlock, returning to his point, "It's a treasure. Something more than money."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"So," John began, still processing, "you're saying he was killed for the keys to an actual treasure? Like pirate treasure?"  
  
Sherlock sighed, "Are you being deliberately stupid?"  
  
John dropped his chin and glared at Sherlock, he pointed a finger and opened his mouth to retort but Sherlock cut him off before he could begin.  
  
"Not pirate treasure, but something extremely valuable. Consider it, a soldier in the middle east, part of a special ops team. He'd have been in a small team, twenty men at most, with more freedom to move about, to steal. The members of the team each have a key, one they will to a remaining member."  
  
"Then why kill O'Brian? Why the torture?"  
  
"Perhaps one of them is now on a shorter time frame, needs money."  
  
John jabbed his finger towards him in the air, "You're just guessing."  
  
"I never guess."  
  
"Yes you do."  
  
Sherlock glared back at John, unwilling to admit he was right.  
  
"Is that why there haven't been any more murders?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Was O'Brian the last? Or, I dunno, did the killer scare the others into--"  
  
"Not sure," Sherlock said, waving him off and wandering away from the table, "I need a nicotine patch."  
  
John sighed and returned to his meal.  
  
His phone rang, vibrating across the table.  
  
Sherlock glanced over, John was staring at his phone with that same voided expression, just watching it ring.  
  
"Are you going to--" started Sherlock.  
  
"No."  
  
The phone rang once more and then ceased.  
  
They were still for a moment.  
  
It rang again.  
  
Robotically, John reached for the mobile and answered at the first ring.  
  
He held it to his ear but didn't say a word.  
  
Sherlock watched him, waited for a response, an expression, something, but after a moment John simply ended the call and placed the phone on the table.  
  
With a frown, like he'd caught himself lost in thought, he returned his attention to his food.  
  
  
#  
  
  
The texts seemed to come in simultaneously, John knew instantly there must be another dead soldier from the way Sherlock's face seemed to almost light up and his tall, thin frame seemed to leap off the couch.  
  
"He's struck again," confirmed the detective.  
  
"Right," said John, moving to get his jacket without question.  
  
"And he's left another message," said Sherlock, turning his phone around to show John, "Mycroft sent it."  
  
John read the familiar, neatly painted, red letters, "Happy Birthday?" He looked to Sherlock, "What is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"I can think of four possibilities, but need more information."  
  
"Was that painted on the same wall as before?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Didn't CCTV catch it?"  
  
Sherlock didn't bother to answer the question, instead rushing from the flat. John followed after him, spotting Mrs. Hudson cleaning at the bottom of the steps.  
  
"Out of the way, Mrs. Hudson," called Sherlock, "There's another dead soldier!"  
  
Mrs. Hudson smiled up at them, moving away from the stairs, "On a case then? Do take care of each other."  
  
Sherlock rushed past, ignoring her, but John returned the smile, "Course we will," he assured her. John joined Sherlock on the curb and watched as he seemed to conjure a taxi just by raising his hand. Once it came to a stop, he joined Sherlock in the back of the taxi and settled, arms crossed, looking out the window as Sherlock gave the address to a hotel building across town.  
  
"You don't have to come if you don't want to," said Sherlock, looking out the other window.  
  
John whipped his head around to look at the detective, "What?"  
  
"The last one seemed to have... upset you. You don't have to--"  
  
"It's fine. I'm-" John sputtered, "I'm fine."  
  
"Lestrade says it's worse than the last one."  
  
"Shut it."  
  
"I just--"  
  
"I said shut it."  
  
They remained silent for the rest of the ride to the hotel and the elevator ride up to the small suite booked by the victim. Lestrade met them at the lift, "There you are," he said, "we've dusted for prints and such, whole scene is clear."  
  
"Hotel safe?" asked Sherlock.  
  
"In use, no tampering, no prints, hotel staff is dragging their feet to open it. Why?"  
  
"Gerald Atwood," Sherlock said walking past several members of the yard and entering the flat, John trailing behind the DI and the consulting detective, "here two nights, went to pick up something from a lawyer yesterday. Most likely left it in the safe."   
  
"How do you?" Lestrade started.  
  
"Mycroft sent more than just a picture then?" John piped, stepping into the flat behind them.  
  
"He has his uses from time to time," said Sherlock.  
  
"Watch your step," warned Lestrade, "It gets a bit messy in the sitting area."  
  
The scene was indeed worse than the prior. O'Brian had been cleaned and dumped, but Atwood had died here. His legs were hung over the back of the couch in such a way that the rest of his body rested on the seat and his head hung near the floor. The neck was slit and he had drained like a pig onto the floor of the hotel room. John's stomach turned, "Where was that safe?" he asked Lestrade, his voice begging for an excuse not to be at the scene anymore.  
  
Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look, "Behind the ugly flowers in the bathroom."  
  
"Right," John said with a nod, slipping past the blood bath and into the bathroom, he closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. He could hear Sherlock chastising Lestrade, "Stop thinking, it's annoying."  
  
John grabbed a bit of tissue and looked to the safe. A painting had been swung forward on a set of hinges to reveal a small hotel safe.  
  
 _Happy birthday._  
  
Using the tissue as a barrier, he punched in the numbers 61273. The door popped open. John shook his head with disappointment, _Idiot never learned._ John looked at the contents of the safe, two small brass keys set inside. John quickly picked them up in the tissue, carefully closed the safe, and tucked the keys and tissue into his pockets.  
  
 _Happy birthday._  
  
John ran some cold water and rinsed his face. He tried to will his hands to stop shaking. With a deep breath, he turned off the water, wiped his face on the sleeve of his jumper and stepped back into the main crime scene. Sgt. Donovan and Anderson had joined Lestrade and Sherlock.  
  
"What'd I miss?" John asked sheepishly.  
  
"Freak says there's too much blood."  
  
John looked at the blood and the position of the body, "Well, yeah. You have to hang people by their feet to drain them completely, wouldn't be this much mess if they'd done it there." Everyone pulled their attention away from the scene to stare at John.  
  
 _Oh shit._  
  
"Pigs," John offered in explanation. "It's just like draining a pig, in med school we studied--"  
  
"It's fine, John," Sherlock said, though his face seem to hold... concern? John looked to Lestrade who seemed bewildered by John's sudden outburst of knowledge.  
  
"That does explain it," added Sherlock, "But there's nothing to have hung him from, either the killer had two very tall, strong assistants or--is there a supply closet near, a ladder?"  
  
John stepped back and out of the center of attention, moving out into the hall and allowing Sherlock to attend to The Work unhindered. Sgt. Donovan stepped into the hall and gave him a judging look, "The freak must be rubbing off on you, or--"  
  
"Quiet Donovan," Sherlock said, appearing at the doorway of the hotel room. The detective headed towards the lift, giving one last directive to Lestrade to message him the contents of the safe. John followed wordlessly, feeling thankful for Sherlock's interference.  
  
  
#  
  
  
Sherlock slipped in next to John in the back of the cab. The doctor had crammed himself against the far door and settled himself to stare out of the window before Sherlock even entered the cab.  
  
"Baker Street," directed Sherlock.  
  
"Not going to go look at the message?" asked John as the cab pulled away from the curb.  
  
"We aren't dealing with amateurs. If there wasn't anything the first time, there won't be anything now."  
  
John only grunted in response.  
  
Sherlock turned his head and watched John.  
  
 _Sulking, disappointed in himself for his outburst. Tired, didn't sleep again after phone call. Stressed, involved in crime?_  
  
 _No._  
  
"It was useful information," said Sherlock.  
  
John didn't answer.  
  
Sherlock continued to watch him, his observations drifting to the shades of John's hair and the pulse at his neck.  
  
"Stop it," said John, still looking out the window.  
  
"Stop what?"  
  
"Looking at me like that."  
  
"I... looking like... what--"  
  
"Like that," John said, turning his head around quickly to meet his eyes.  
  
"Why?" blurted Sherlock, damning himself.  
  
In a low voice John delivered a warning, "If you keep looking, you're going to see something you won't like and you'll never be able to not see it again."  
  
Sherlock didn't break the eye contact, choosing to continue to stare.  
  
 _Involved in crime?_  
  
"Are you part of the tontine?"  
  
John blinked and shifted his glare to the back of the cabbi's head.  
  
"John?"  
  
He didn't answer.  
  
"Captain John Watson, are you part of the tontine?"  
  
John licked his lips, "I'm not at liberty to say."  
  
Sherlock furrowed his brow and turned his head forward.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
When the taxi pulled up to Baker Street, he was quick to escape, leaving John to pay. He stepped into the flat and reviewed the facts.  
  
 _Tontine. Treasure. Keys. Old friend. Gifts. Two Dead Soldiers. John._  
  
 _John is in danger._  
  
John stepped into 221 behind him just as Mrs. Hudson appeared from their door at the top of the stairs, "Boys, you've got a client." She gave them a funny sort of look, "Had a row, have we?"  
  
"No," said John, "we're both just a bit tired from the case. We're coming." John moved past him and began up the seventeen steps to their home. "Come on, Sherlock," said John, "Let's not keep the client waiting."  
  
"Of course," said Sherlock, following behind him. It was so much easier to pretend everything was alright when John was pretending too.  
  
They entered to find a man in his early thirties sitting on their sofa and sipping on a cup of tea provided by Mrs. Hudson. The man stood when they entered, "Oh thank the Lord," he said stepping forward.  
  
"Please have a seat and we can discuss--" Sherlock began.  
  
"John, I need your help, surely you've heard--"  
  
John stepped forward and took his hand for a strong, welcoming handshake, "Trevor!" he interrupted, "Haven't seen you since your foot. How's the old injury doing?"  
  
"It's-It's fine, but John--"  
  
John clutched on to his hand a bit harder, "And your wife? How is she?"  
  
"My?" the man's eyes widened and he flicked a glance at Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson who were both standing to the side, watching with amazement. "My wife is doing well, expecting a visit from her sister, the one from Scotland."  
  
"Not really a safe time to travel," said John, scrunching his nose.  
  
Mrs. Hudson piped in, "We aren't expecting too many storms, shouldn't be too much trouble for her to travel, John."  
  
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said, with a rather forced smile. He looked back to his friend, "Care to grab a pint?"  
  
Sherlock caught another nervous glance from Trevor.  
  
"Yeah," agreed the man, "yeah, a pint sounds great."  
  
"It's not even eleven in the morning," said Mrs. Hudson.  
  
"Lunch then," said John, ushering his friend out the door. John gave Sherlock a careful look, "I should be back in an hour."  
  
 _If not back in one hour, Trevor is killer._  
  
Sherlock gave a nod.  
  
"John," chastised Mrs. Hudson, "Aren't you forgetting something?" she said with a subtle nod toward Sherlock.  
  
"Don't worry about me," said Sherlock, "I'm much too busy to eat. Though some fresh tea would be--"  
  
"I'm not your housekeeper, dear."

  
  
#  
  
  
  
John led Trevor to a coffee shop a few blocks away, one he didn't visit regularly but was somewhat crowded. They ordered and sat at a small table in the back.  
  
Trevor reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small brass key. He placed it on the table in front of John.  
  
"Take it."  
  
John puckered his lips, "Why are you--"  
  
"It's him. Collin, you remember Collin, how could you forget Collin?"  
  
"I didn't forget Collin."  
  
"It's him doin' this, I know it is."  
  
"Why do you think Collin's the one?"  
  
"Honestly, who else would it be? Collin's the only one crazy enough, with reason enough. He's fallen on some pretty hard times and he's--"  
  
"So why give me the key?"  
  
"He isn't going to kill you!"  
  
John flinched, sweeping over the patrons of the shop to look for reactions.  
  
"Sorry," said Trevor, lowering his voice, "it's just, well, you aren't, uh, you weren't, that is, um, he was always a bit afraid of you after what happened with Malik, and then that business with the major. He looked up to you, sort of."  
  
"Please," said John, feeling ill at the thought, "please do not tell me Collin 'looked up to me'. That man was sick, is sick. I hope to never see him again in my life."  
  
Trevor hung his head a bit, "You're right, I didn't mean... I just meant to say he considered you to be stronger than him."  
  
John shook his head, looking down at the little key, "Trevor, giving me this key will in no way protect you and it certainly doesn't make me safer from--"  
  
"I don't expect protection from you. I, I think I'm next and I need it delivered."  
  
"Why do you think you're next?"  
  
"It was weird to start with Eugine, wasn't it? I thought, why Eugine? Why not Reggi or O'Connor? It's to do with the bunks."  
  
"The bunks?"  
  
"Eugine and Atwood were directly to the right of--"  
  
"Stop," said John, holding up a hand. "You don't even know if it really is Collin. Tell me, really, why do you think you're next?"  
  
"I got a letter a few months back."  
  
"What did it say? 'Hey, this is Collin, I'll be coming round to kill you in March?"  
  
Trevor gave John a hurt look, "It was just a number. A big red three, I thought it was rubbish and threw it out but--"  
  
"Have you spoken with any of the others about this? Fitz? Did he get a number all the way out in Scotland?"  
  
"No. No, it's just me, I called the two or three I still contact from time to time."  
  
"Then you don't know that the letter was--"  
  
"It's ironic."  
  
John took in a deep breath.  
  
"Me? Gettin' a letter like that, why would the others get, they didn't, it's just... I heard they sliced up Eugine."  
  
"Drained Gerald."  
  
Trevor's face paled, "John, there's no point pretending. I'm next, and it's okay."  
  
"No it isn't."  
  
"I don't know how you've held on to your ideas of justice after all you've seen and done."  
  
"Trevor--"  
  
"Send it to Fitz."  
  
"Trevor--"  
  
"Fitz, alright?"  
  
"Trevor--"  
  
"Damn it, John!"  
  
A woman behind Trevor jumped and turned to glower at them.  
  
Trevor set his jaw, "Please."  
  
"Fitz," said John, the name sticking in his throat.  
  
Trevor gave him a smile and a curt nod, "Well then," he said with a nod as he stood and turned to shuffle out of the coffee shop.  
  
John held his head in his hand, peering down at the key from between his fingers.  
  
"Can you at least give me names?" asked a baritone voice at the table behind him. 

>>>


	3. Trevor Hesse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 is here! Thanks for the kudos and comments! I appreciate the positive feedback. Hope to have the next chapter out by next Wednesday! :)

John squinched his eyes shut at the sound of Sherlock's voice. Of course the nutter had managed to follow them. He shoved the palms of his hands into his eyes, hoping he might just wake up from some horrible nightmare. There was a shift in the seat behind him and he heard Sherlock slip into the spot Trevor had just vacated.  
  
"John, can you tell me--"  
  
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," huffed John, letting his hands fall back onto the table.  
  
"I need to know--"  
  
"If I could, wouldn't I have done it already?" said John angrily, risking a glance at the detective. Sherlock was in full deduction mode, stoic and statuesque.  
  
"There are lives at stake, John."  
  
"Isn't that my line?" John said, leaning back in his chair but avoiding eye contact with Sherlock, as if all his secrets might spill out if the detective managed to get a good enough look.  
  
"John--"  
  
"Stop," said John, holding out his hand to cut off the detective. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders as if on-duty once more, and willed himself to look into Sherlock's stone grey eyes, "Sherlock, you are the most intelligent person I know, why not try doing what it is you do best."  
  
Sherlock lowered his head and glowered at him, "You... want me to deduce the situation?"  
  
John clenched his jaw and kept his eye contact but didn't respond.  
  
"Will you confirm my deductions?"  
  
John responded in a low, cold, almost threatening tone, "I. Am. Not. At. Liberty. To. Say."  
  
Sherlock set his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, closing his eyes to think. John seized the opportunity and picked the key up from the table, setting it in a separate pocket from the other two brass keys that seemed to weigh down his jacket already. The detective opened his eyes, "I can think of three possible reasons. The first is fear but given your tendency to run towards gunshots rather than away from them, fear seems unlikely. The second is that you are being threatened or blackmailed by the killer, most likely the identity of your mysterious caller on the night of each murder, but again unlikely."  
  
John squinted at him and lifted his head a bit, as if interested.  
  
"You want to know how I know he isn't threatening you?"  
  
John only blinked, but that seemed to be all the encouragement Sherlock needed to answer the question.  
  
"When threatened you are more likely to respond with anger or threats of your own rather than... shut down, the way that you do. Still, they seemed likely to be threats, gloats, blackmail until Mr. Hesse's information about receiving a letter."  
  
"You got his last name?"  
  
"He gave it to Mrs. Hudson."  
  
John gave a short, military nod.  
  
"No, now it seems likely the phone calls are singular to you just as the letter was singular to him," he paused, as if considering saying more on the subject, but chose to continue on a different direction, "The third and most likely reason you have remained silent and continue to remain silent in spite of the evidence against you is that you are under orders. Some orders do maintain long after service, the information is classified, even Mycroft couldn't get a copy of O'Brian's records."  
  
John again only blinked, but that seemed to be all the detective needed for confirmation any longer.  
  
Sherlock allowed his steepled fingers to web together, placing his thumbs under his chin and intensifying his gaze on John, "You took the key."  
  
"What key?" said John flatly, unflinching.  
  
John felt as if Sherlock's glare might bore a hole through him, but he remained as flat and stiff as he could, choosing to think over the list of muscles in the human body rather than put too much focus on the conversation at hand. Staying distracted and calm always made lying easier.  
  
After a minute of glowering, John smiled at his flatmate, "Well then, think I'll run to Tesco. Need anything? Milk?"  
  
Sherlock didn't answer, but he also didn't stop John from leaving the coffee shop.  
  
Once outside, John let go of the breath he'd been unconsciously holding and grabbed his cell phone. He held it to his ear and listened to the rings. One, two, three, "Hello?"  
  
"Burn the records."  
  
"Captain?"  
  
"On everyone."  
  
"It's already done."  
  
"Since O'Brian?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Good."  
  
"Captain, we don't have many options."  
  
"No sir."  
  
"Holmes?"  
  
"I trust him."  
  
"I don't. Not yet."  
  
"Understood, sir."

#  
  
  
Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket. His fingers flew swiftly across the phone, typing out a message.

Trevor Hesse. Reggi. O'Connor. Fitz - currently in Scotland. Collin. Milak. Eugine O'Brian. Gerald Atwood. -SH  
Need military records. -SH

He stared down at his phone waiting for a response.

Difficult to find records on partial names. -MH

Cross reference, should all be sp ops. High Classification. -SH  
Collin - discipline records -SH

New lead? Anything else? -MH

Sherlock looked down at the text from his brother, unsure of whether or not to respond. He typed out another message, looked over it, hesitated, and then pressed 'send'.

Need all military records for John Watson. -SH

Sherlock felt an odd gratitude when his brother didn't send another response, he'd expected his brother to gloat. Mycroft had offered him John's military records when he'd first arrived at Baker Street. Sherlock had refused them at the time. His gratitude seemed to become overruled by an unfamiliar pang of, was it guilt? The accusation of John's involvement screamed out from the little black letters on the screen. John was certainly being stubborn and uncooperative, but he wasn't necessarily hindering the development of the case either.  
  
 _Not the killer._  
  
He closed his eyes and went over the facts of the case, hoping for new enlightenment.  
  
 _Tontine, treasure, keys, phone call, 'gift', old friend, Trevor, letter, unique, ceremonial but unique deaths, phone call, John - being threatened_  
  
He shook his head and began again.  
  
 _Military, special operations, tontine, treasure, keys, gift, old friend, Trevor, Collin - 'sick', Collin - 'afraid of John', John, threat_  
  
He pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes in frustration.  
  
 _Military, John, Afghanistan, tontine, treasure, keys, gift, old friend, Trevor Hesse, Collin ?, secrets, orders, officer._  
  
 _Commanding officer. Orders. John. Secrets. Tontine. Treasure._  
  
 _Commanding officer orders John._  
  
Sherlock thought back to their arrival at the flat. Trevor had been ready to bring up the murders in front of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, John had cut him off. He jumped from his seat and rushed out of the little coffee shop, pulling information on Hesse from the internet on his phone.  
  
"If you're looking for Trevor, he probably went back to his apartment."  
  
Sherlock turned, John had waited for him. He had walked past the windows and stood, leaned up against the brick, hands in his jacket pockets, and waited for the detective to come rushing out. His body seemed relaxed, comfortable, but his face was stern. His eyes discerning. For the first time in his life, Sherlock thought he might understand what it felt like to come under his own deductive eye.  
  
"Took you longer than I expected."  
  
Sherlock's phone pinged with a new text message. He ignored it, refusing to take his eyes off of this new John that stood before him.  
  
"Surely you of all people can understand, some secrets are worth dying for."  
  
"Worth killing for?"  
  
"I'm not killing people," said John, "You know that."  
  
"But you could stop this."  
  
"You're giving me too much credit, I'm not all that important."  
  
There was another ping.  
  
"Shouldn't keep your brother waiting."  
  
Sherlock pulled the phone from his pocket and quickly read the messages.

Burned. -MH

Still have copy of John's records -MH

Sherlock looked back to John, "You called someone?"  
  
"So did you," said John, giving a nod to the phone still in Sherlock's hand.  
  
"So am I to catch you? Are you the villain now?"  
  
"I'm not running."  
  
"No, you aren't."  
  
John smiled at him, in that approving way he does when Sherlock eats. That same smile that makes Sherlock's eyes linger a little too long on John's lips. Even now, of all times.  
  
"I told you not to look at me like that."  
  
"Like what?" Sherlock looked back at his eyes, they're soft now. Relaxed.  
  
"You're not going to like what you find."  
  
"I doubt that."  
  
That damned smile again.  
  
"Afghanistan, Hovel, Thirteen but only twelve."  
  
Sherlock blinked, "Special forces?"  
  
"Information."  
  
Sherlock cocked his head, "You-"  
  
"Sorry, that's all I can say."  
  
 _Certainly more than before. What changed?_  
  
John gave a short laugh, "Call it a trust exercise."  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. _Oh. Mind reading, that's what John means._  
  
John took in a deep breath and met Sherlock's eyes, "Look, I'm... limited, right now, in what I can say."  
  
"Right now? Am I to ignore the case in the mean time, you know I can't do that John."  
  
"That's the last thing I want you to do."  
  
  


#  
  
  
The call came that night.  
  
Sherlock was on the couch, long legs crossed in front of him, eyes locked on his laptop. John was seated in his armchair, reading his rubbish mystery novel. They'd returned back to the flat, a tense silence between them, but Sherlock had launched himself into The Work as soon as they were across the threshold of 221B. He hadn't looked away from it in hours. John hadn't bothered to even attempt to get him to eat.  
  
The shrill ring of John's mobile just after midnight cut through the silence. Sherlock looked up from the laptop instantly, watching and observing John's every movement. John squared his shoulders, took in a deep breath, and answered the call.  
  
He held the mobile up to his ear and waited.  
  
John heard the man's voice, deeper than he remembered but the soft trills were still sweet, still smooth and cool like an oasis stream, he could only picture the boy it had once belonged to. That ragged, dirty, frightened boy and his begging, chestnut eyes.  
  
 _"Hello, Doctor Watson."_  
  
John relaxed his jaw, and took a sideways glance at Sherlock.  
  
"Hakim."  
  
 _"So you do remember me!"_ replied the man with a laugh, _"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten."_  
  
"Rather difficult to forget."  
  
 _"You are a good man to remember, Atwood didn't, the pig."_  
  
John's face went blank again, Sherlock edged forward on the couch, trying to get a closer analysis. He held his breath subconsciously, damning his inability to hear the other side of the conversation.  
  
 _"O'Brian didn't remember my name, but Hesse did."_  
  
"Trevor's dead then?"  
  
 _"He'd accepted his punishment Doctor Watson."_  
  
"Had he?"  
  
The man laughed, _"If there is anything to be said of Hesse, it is that he was always an honest man. He made no excuses, even at the end."_  
  
"I suppose that's true."  
  
John heard a whistling, like a train, in the background. _"I'm sorry old friend, I must go, but I'll call again soon."_  
  
The phone went dead.  
  
John bit his bottom lip, stood, and slid the phone into his pocket. Sherlock watched intently as John went into the kitchen and pulled down a single mug. Intently, and without word, John made a cup of coffee. He added two sugars, walked back to Sherlock, and set the mug next to the detective with that smile.  
  
"I'm beginning to think," said Sherlock, "that you do that on purpose."  
  
John shook his head, restraining a small laugh, it didn't seem appropriate to laugh, "You see," mocked John, "but you don't observe."  
  
"When did you become so clever?"  
  
"I took classes while you were gone."  
  
"Liar."  
  
"Yes. I am a very good liar."  
  
Sherlock frowned slightly.  
  
"But, then," said John with a sigh, "so are you."  
  
"A trust exercise?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"That's what you said. It's a trust exercise."


	4. Michael Barron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, big thank you to everyone who has given kudos and bookmarked!! Sorry this chapter took so long, I'm dealing with some computer issues but hope to have everything running a bit more smoothly this week.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Sherlock sat rigidly in his armchair, the lanky length of his limbs resting comfortably as he scrutinized his flatmate. He watched John, who was sitting in his own armchair doing his best to ignore the detective, as he sipped tea and read the morning paper. Sherlock had spent nearly a month now agonizing over the facts and names and pictures he'd been provided, but despite the efforts of both Sherlock and Mycroft there had been little advancement in bringing the case to a close. For the past week, Sherlock had turned his full attention to John, hoping to deduce something he'd somehow missed - after all, he'd missed an awful lot about John, apparently.

The Holmes brothers had both independently examined John's military service records, but found that a great deal of it had been blacked out years before when Mycroft had first retrieved the files. It was enough to know John had spent over a decade serving, he'd been to Iraq, Egypt, Pakistan, the Congo, and Afghanistan, he was a remarkable marksman-far more so than Sherlock had given the doctor credit for, and he'd actually spent very little time in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, despite his many claims.

John jumped slightly in his chair, dropping the paper to wipe away hot tea he'd dribbled down the front of his jumper.

_How can this man possibly be special operations?_

Sherlock furrowed his brow and allowed his head to tilt to the side, thinking of a past conversation with the doctor.

_"I was a soldier, I killed people," John had said. Sherlock had mocked him, "You were a doctor."_

_"I had bad days."_

John sighed, setting the tea cup aside, and returned to his paper. John was so many things, Sherlock wondered how it all fit into such a short man. He was such an enigma, such a walking contradiction, and try as he might Sherlock simply couldn't seem to place a proper label on him like he could everyone else.

_Doctor John Watson_

_Captain John Hammish Watson_

_Doctor:Soldier_

_Healer:Killer_

_Loyal:Liar_

_Savior:Tormentor_

_Confidante:Interrogator_

_John_

_John his friend._

_Suspect?_

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, as if it might help.

"Not coming up with anything new, then?" John asked from behind his paper.

The detective glared at him, "Surely you can say something more?"

"If I could, I would."

"John--"

The doctor dropped the paper down into his lap and stared back at the detective, "Drop it."

Sherlock slunk down in his chair and settled in for a good pout, "What could you have possibly been doing that Mycroft doesn't have clearance?"

"There really aren't that many things," teased John, "perhaps it just isn't his department?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Everything is his department."

There was a light knock on the door to the flat and Mrs. Hudson called out gently, "Boys?" Hesitantly, she opened the door to peak in.

"Come in, Mrs. Hudson!" called John, standing to greet the landlady.

"John dear," she said with a smile, "I wanted to drop this by, it was delivered earlier this morning. I had to sign for it while you were both out this morning."

"Thank you," replied John, taking the relatively thin envelope from her. He looked down at it and frowned, there wasn't a return address. Using his finger, he ripped open the envelope to find a second one inside. Sherlock stood abruptly and moved in closer to see as John's face had paled slightly. The solder seemed to reappear, hidden under the bulk of the jumper, as John stood up a bit taller and squared off his shoulders.

"Is everything alright?" asked Mrs. Hudson, true concern in her voice.

"Fine," John assured her with a smile. The mild tension that was beginning to build was disrupted by Sherlock's phone. He read through it carefully and swiftly responded, "Thank you Mrs. Hudson," he said with his best fake smile, "We'll have to be off though. It seems we've got a case."

Sherlock waited for the landlady to leave and then demanded John to open the letter. John took a glance into those frightfully determined eyes, and pulled out the second sealed envelope. It too had no return address, but John's neat army scrawl appeared across the front. It was addressed to one Jeffery Fitz in small village in northern Scotland. John swiftly felt down the envelope, felt the contents and knew his package had been returned. Wordlessly and looking Sherlock straight in the eye, he folded the unopened inner envelope and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans and then offered the outer envelope to the detective. 

"Is this...?" Sherlock began.

"It's from an Old Friend."

"There's a new body."

"We should go then."

 

#

 

Lestrade met them at the edge of the park, his face a bit paled. John eyed him cautiously, but didn't ask what he was thinking, he felt something like relief when Sherlock asked for him, "Another soldier?"

"He's got dog tags, killer seemed to make a point of their being visible. I kept everyone away from the body, for now."

"Isn't that outside of protocol?"

"Your brother gave me a ring about a month or so back, said to give you first and free access to all murdered soldiers."

Sherlock gave a smirk, and gestured toward the park, "Lead the way then." They followed the DI to the crime scene, watched by members of the Yard who were waiting for them to finish their business so they could do their jobs. About twenty feet from the body, they'd made it through enough of the crowd to catch a glimpse of the body. It was abnormally common. Fully clothed, nothing torn, no obvious signs of a fight or torture, not even a lot of visible blood. Ten feet from the body, John halted from the vibration from his phone. John answered the call, swallowing back a shiver of fear, as Lestrade and Sherlock continued with quick strides to the body. 

_"Hello Doctor Watson."_

John didn't respond.

_"I'm rather late with my call, I apologize."_

John watched as Sherlock came to a stop just in front of the body and began to squat down to begin his investigation of the corpse, John moved in closer. 

_"Though I don't have much to say."_

Sherlock reached a hand forward. John recognized the victim.

_"Boom Boom."_

Sherlock touched the corpse's torso, John shoved Lestrade away while simultaneously pulling Sherlock away by his coat collar. The body exploded.

The explosion was relatively small, mostly causing damage to the corpse, sending raw chunks of flesh flying onto the nearby ground, tree, and detectives. The majority of the blood, flesh, and bone which had been sent flying from the body had coated over Lestrade, who'd been standing nearby, and John, who had placed himself protectively between Sherlock and the body. John looked back at the no-longer-common crime scene. The explosives had been small indeed, only sending the meat and bone of the torso into the air and leaving behind the head and limbs. John sighed, realizing he'd overreacted a bit, but grateful for it. Had he not pulled Sherlock back with such force the detective would have lost his hand and possibly received minor burns to the face and neck. John silently admitted to himself he would have mourned the loss of Sherlock's hand, it would mean the loss of the trill of the violin, the image of steepled fingers, and the graceful, sweeping gestures made by the detective when he was impassioned by a case.

Sherlock did not attempt to move away from John's protective embrace, but looked at the body with something akin to shock. He wiggled the fingers of the hand that had just touched the body and was struck by an odd appreciation for his limbs and digits. John unwrapped his arms and moved away, hunching down further to be at eye level, "Need a blanket?" he asked. Sherlock tore his eyes from the body to look at John, and composed himself again quickly, pulling on his emotionless mask and getting to his feet, "Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm not in shock."

"Are you alright?" asked the doctor, grabbing Sherlock's hands to inspect them, but Sherlock pulled away. "I'm fine," he assured John, then with a smile, "thanks to you."

"Bloody hell!" yelled Lestrade, "What just happened? John, how did you know?"

John looked at the incomplete body, "Boom Boom," he said.

"Yes," said the DI, "I got that part!"

John shook his head, "No, that's his nickname."

"What?"

John stood upright, legs shoulder width apart, feet steady, shoulders squared, posture formal, fully in the roll of Captain Watson. "Lieutenant Michael Barron, explosives expert, nickname: Boom Boom, oddly not earned from his professional specialties." Lestrade looked at John, dumbfounded. The panic and horror that had, just moments ago, stirred up the guttural screams and sounds of fear and disgust from the Yarders was now a quiet, questioning murmur.

"You served with him?" asked Lestrade.

"Yes," said John, somewhat coldly. He felt that old ache in his shoulder creeping in. 

"John," said Sherlock, grabbing him by the arm, "Calm down."

The Captain turned his attention to the detective, "You wanted more evidence," he spat, "now you've got some!" John gestured down at the bloodied mess in front of them.

"John--"

"He was a bloody, fucking, arsehole," said John, hands shaking and eyes beginning to burn, "but he didn't deserve this." He felt himself beginning to panic, his breath shortening and vision darkening and then there was Sherlock, arms around him in a comforting hug, telling him it was okay, it was going to be okay, he was going to stop this, he didn't want anymore evidence, telling him he was sorry.

John relaxed in his arms and, ignoring the baffled silence of the Yarders, allowed Sherlock to lead him away from the crime scene.

 

#

 

John shampooed his hair for the eighth time, scrubbing as if the remains of his former colleague were still coated there. He did his best not to think about what a poor burial the shower drain made or the unsteady tremor of his hand or the freezing cold temperature of the water. When he finally felt as though he'd shoved the emotions far enough down to ignore them, and the cold of the water became enough to cause his entire body to shiver, he left the safety of the shower to towel off. Once he'd dried and dressed himself, he stepped out of the bathroom and into the hall.

"Hello, John," came the sweet and pompous trill of Mycroft Holmes. John walked into the sitting area to find Sherlock and Mycroft sitting uneasily in the armchairs near the fireplace. 

"Mycroft," said John, greeting him with a military nod.

"I just popped by to share some new information on the case," Mycroft offered in way of explanation. 

When Sherlock didn't offer a response, but instead just stared into nothingness with his hands steepled under his chin, John replied, "We've, er, already been to, well, the, uh--" he didn't want to finish the sentence and was almost relieved rather than annoyed when Mycroft held up a hand, "I'm up to date with the events concerning Lieutenant Barron."

"Oh, right," said John, weakly.

"I am here because we've just received notification that a former Lieutenant Jeffery Fitz, currently living in Scotland, has been reported missing."

John looked down at his feet, his throat threatening to fill with bile, "How long?" he managed to choke out.

The reply came from a much gruffer voice than either Holmes brother had to offer, "He was last seen approximately three weeks ago." John lifted his head and looked toward the door of the flat where a gentleman in his mid-fifties, dressed in military uniform had entered the flat. John immediately fell into old routine, clipping his heels together and saluting to the man. Sherlock snapped out of his thinking trance and watched John, one eyebrow lifted.

"At ease Captain," the man commanded gently before looking to Mycroft, "I see you beat me here, Mr. Holmes. Just as well, I'd be coming to find you next." Mycroft stood, smiling his best politicians smile, "Major General Watts."

Sherlock turned his eye to the Major General standing in his flat, scrutinizing every detail, "Cigar smoker, twice divorced, owns three dogs, formerly an outstanding field officer, but growing bored now forced to work behind a desk dealing with people like my brother, transfer and promotion due to an injury to the leg, spends a lot of time doing crossword puzzles, and blacking out old military files."

The Major General chuckled and gave a light, friendly slap to John's arm, who was trying not to look like he was beaming with pride, "You're right John, he's amazing. Would've made both our jobs a hell of a lot easier," he laughed. John chuckled and nodded in agreement, "Most certainly, Reggi, but I don't think that sort of thing is really where his interest lies." 

Both Holmes brothers stared with some confusion on their face, before quickly readjusting themselves into their normal demeanor. "Oh," said Sherlock, "Reggi." The detective looked to John, who gave a slight confirming nod. The Major General held out his hand in greeting to the detective, "Honor to meet you Mr. Holmes, John speaks very highly of you. I'm Reginald Watts, his former commanding officer."

Sherlock hesitantly accepted the handshake, "To what do we owe the visit?" 

Watts smiled, "Well, to start, to inform you your clearance has been raised."

Mycroft scoffed, "What? Our clearance is already--"

"Not high enough to get into my boys records," said Reggi, "but now we've got four dead soldiers and another one missing." He returned his attention to Sherlock, "At the recommendation of Captain John Watson, the British Military would like to hire you to consult on a case. We do hope you'll be willing to help."

Sherlock looked at John as if unsure, but John cleared his throat, "I've been working to convince them for some time that you'll be discreet. I'd be able to answer your questions, if--"

"If you take the case," chimed in Reggi, "We'll give you access to records, what little information we have about the killer, access to information only known by the Captain and myself, and I'll see to it that your brother stays out of your hair."

"Now wait a moment," started Mycroft, but Sherlock cut in, "You're asking me to take a case with higher security clearance than Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yes," answered the Major General.

Sherlock looked to John, eyebrows furrowed, "You have higher security clearance than my brother?"

John licked his lips, eyes flicking from one Holmes brother to the other, both staring at him with equal ferocity and confusion, "Well," he said, "Technically, due to the nature of... yes."

Everyone was silent for a moment, then Sherlock corrected his posture, clapped his hands together, and smiled at the Major General, "I'll take the case."

"In that case," replied Reggi, "We'll have some files delivered ASAP, once your brother clears out of course, but you can have this now." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope exactly like the one John had received only hours before. "It arrived this morning, to my office," he explained, handing it to the detective. Sherlock took the opened envelope and looked at the bulky content within. He pulled on a glove and then reached in to remove the human finger inside.

"Already ran a fingerprint scan," said the Major General, "belongs to one Lieutenant Jeffery Fitz."

John sighed, "Probably get a whole damn foot next."

Reggi chuckled, "It certainly does fit ole' Jeff's style."


	5. Troy Patchett

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, I have no excuses, only apologies. 
> 
> Thank you for the kudos, comments, and bookmarks! I greatly appreciate the continued support. Hope you enjoy this chapter, I will do my best to have the next one posted by this Friday!!
> 
> ***Additionally, a thoughtful reader suggested I forewarn readers that the following chapter includes "detailed descriptions of systematic torture". Thank you to amyhit for gently letting me know I might need to provide some trigger warnings.***

Sherlock Remained utterly silent while he waited for the Major General to escort Mycroft out of 221B. Watts left with assurances that the files would be delivered within the day and Mycroft, while exhibiting clear protests, kept his complaints quiet and left with the same aristocratic grace he always carried. Captain Watson closed the door behind them, took a deep breath, and then sat down in the chair across from Sherlock.

The detective only stared at him. At first John remained stoic, but then he furrowed his brow in confusion. He leaned in a bit a moment later and pursed his lips as if concerned. Then, with a frown, the former soldier leaned back in his chair again and sighed. Sherlock continued to stare blankly at the man across from him. He should be asking questions, John was waiting for him to start asking questions, he was ready to answer them, willing even, but Sherlock didn't know where to start. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, all that escaped was, "How?"

Captain Watson cocked his head sideways and pursed his lips again, he opened his mouth and then closed it again. The soldier closed his eyes and shook his head a bit before looking back at Sherlock, "How what?"

"How can you possibly have a higher security clearance than Mycroft Holmes?"

"Well--" John started to answer, but Sherlock continued, "And yet," said the detective, "you remained oblivious to my on-goings during my... absence, and always seem genuinely baffled by Mycroft's sway within the government, and didn't know what was happening in Baskerville, and--"

John started laughing. The sound silenced the detective who could only return to staring at the man in front of him. This was neither soldier nor doctor, but truly John, sitting in that arm chair and laughing at him. When John finished his laugh he answered, "My clearance was granted for the sake of the operation. I'm not an official, I'm just someone who knows a whole lot about a particular set of events. I don't have some ID badge that gets me into places like Baskerville and I never even thought to... well, I don't have the kind of authority that lets me snoop around for things in government databases."

"You've got such high security clearance people don't know you have it."

John nodded and gave a polite smile, "Something like that."

"I suppose I can't just say tell me everything," said Sherlock.

"Unfortunately no. I can answer any question you ask, but I can't guide your questions and I'm to keep answers minimal." 

"Meaning there are secrets the Major General is hoping I won't stumble onto."

"And that you won't disclose, should you discover them."

"Trevor Hesse was prepared to talk, but you and the general are much more secretive. There are parts of this some members of the tontine know that others don't."

John only nodded in response.

Sherlock leaned his head back and steepled his fingers, "I suppose we'll start at the beginning then." He sat up properly, allowing himself to fully step into detective mode, he could not afford to hold back just because he was questioning John, "What is the Hovel?"

John read the physical changes in Sherlock's body and adjusted his own frame as well. He sat comfortably, but the soldier was present and his answer was given in that clipped, military speech all cadets master early on. "The Hovel was a secure information camp in Afghanistan."

"Purpose?"

"The American's had Abu Ghraib, the British had The Hovel. Though, the British are a bit less... offensive."

"Define less offensive."

"The Major had rules. No rape or sexual assault of any kind, no genital mutilation, no removal of the tongue, no Chelsea Grins, no killing."

"But other forms of torture for the sake of obtaining information was fine."

Captain Watson gave a curt nod.

"Enemy combatants or civilians?"

"Both."

"So the rules weren't for the sake of keeping within Convention laws?"

"No. They were based on the beliefs, ideals, and needs of the Major and the mission." John hesitated for a moment, "I think too, he made them to ground his soldiers. When you play Police and Prisoners, it can bring out the worst in people. Giving the interrogators rules, a line in the sand, limitations, it helps to prevent things from going too far past a certain point."

"It prevents Abu Ghraib."

"Something like that."

"Types of prisoners?"

"People the government thought had information. Men, women, families."

"Children?"

"Parents talk when their children are in pain."

Sherlock swallowed back the discomfort he had at those words. The idea itself wasn't what bothered him, it wasn't that unthinkable in the scale of what mankind was capable of doing, but the words had been so cold and dead coming from John's mouth. John cared about strangers, certainly children, how could he betray his character in such a way?

"I told you that you wouldn't like what you saw if you looked too close."

The detective tried to steel his expression, but the words sat uncomfortably in his gut. Would this case end with Sherlock feeling disgust for John? A part of him wanted to abandon the case, just remain oblivious, but he couldn't leave it unsolved now, not if John, his John, was in danger, so instead he cleared his throat and asked, "How many prisoners?"

"No more than thirty at any one time."

"Soldiers?"

"Including myself and the Major, thirteen. Hesse was a cadet, training to replace one of the others."

"Retirement or discharge?"

"The Major was going to have him discharged, but Hesse wound up there training alongside his predecessor for nearly a year."

"Specifically, what were _your_ orders?"

"My official orders as Captain and Medic were to provide medial assistance to both the British soldiers and the prisoners. No one was to die in the Hovel. I was also second in command, so if something happened to the Major--"

"You would have been left in charge of operations?"

"Yes."

"So, the others went in to interrogate and then you went in after to clean up whatever mess they'd left?"

"Essentially."

"You didn't personally torture the prisoners."

John opened his mouth to answer but hesitated, "Technically, no."

"Technically?"

The men weren't trained properly on anatomy and physiology, they didn't know how to cut a person without risking accidentally bleeding someone out."

"You had to teach them?"

John gave one single, tense nod, his jaw was clenched and his lips were tight in a hard straight line. There was a mild tremor in his hand. Sherlock hesitated to ask his next question, it wouldn't likely help with the case, but he needed to know, "Explain your specific involvement and teaching used for the interrogations."

John swallowed hard and looked away, tense with guilt and face growing red with anger, or perhaps shame. "Torture is mostly mental," he said, "It's about inducing fear and then inflicting the least amount of damage to get them to talk. Then you continually raise that level of fear and pain until there is either nothing left to learn or the person is too damaged, emotionally or physically, to answer the questions."

Sherlock remained silent, though some part of him felt sick hearing the words from John.

Captain Watson continued, "The Major requested I act as something of a policing force within ranks of the soldiers, and a refuge to the prisoners. I had to be both terrifying and kind at the same time. I made certain the soldiers didn't break, or attempt to break, the Major's rules and it fell to me to give punishment when needed. I also went in after every questioning session to help heal, comfort, and care for prisoners. The prisoners began to see me in too positive a light and I frequently complained to the Major about the ineptitude of the men's performances during torture sessions." He stopped and let go of a deep, shuddering breath, clenching his fists so that the knuckles turned white. "The Major got the idea from Atwood, who had an affinity for calling the prisoners pigs. We had eleven of them brought in along with some equipment. Then we strung them all up by the hind legs, and slit their throats. They brought the prisoners in, like some class meeting, made them sit in the blood to watch a 'demonstration'." John shook and kept his eyes locked on the ground in front of him, but Sherlock remained silent while he pushed himself to finish. "One by one, each soldier walked to the front, next to a pig, while the others kept their guns trained on the prisoners. The soldier would explain, in detail, his preferred methods. I would then demonstrate proper technique and teach the soldier until they'd perfected it. From then on, I would also occasionally be called in to sessions to do 'active teaching' and monitoring. After that, the prisoners thought I was the most dangerous one there, though many never hated me the way they hated the others."

A heavy silence infiltrated the room and both men sat silently. Sherlock broke the silence, "Who are Hakim and Malik?"

"Malik Al-Basri was one of the prisoners, an Iraqi who'd been brought in. Hakim was his son. He was twelve when they brought him in."

"Hakim Al-Basri is the--"

"The killer we're looking for, yes."

"What happened to Malik?"

Captain Watson looked Sherlock straight in the eyes, "He was killed."

"Which soldier specifically? Hesse mentioned a Collin who was--"

"Me."

"..."

"I killed him."

Sherlock blinked and swallowed the rest of his sentence. He had more to ask, so much more to ask, but John couldn't answer any more now and, if he was being honest, Sherlock didn't want to know more about John's involvement. So instead, the detective rose from his seat, fetched the thin blanket from the couch, wrapped it around John's shoulders, and then retreated to the kitchen to make tea. 

 

#

John vaguely remembered Sherlock setting a cup of tea next to him and that it had been midday when Sherlock had begun asking his questions. He blinked in confusion when he heard the door to the flat open and close behind him and smelled the scent of take-out waft through the living room. Outside the windows, John could see the night view of Baker Street, the tea beside him was cold. He turned in his seat to find Sherlock returning his coat to its hook. The detective gave him a small, sad smile, "I was beginning to think I'd need to call someone."

"How long have I..."

"About four hours," said Sherlock, then he held up the take-out with an uncharacteristic smile, "Hungry?"

"You got food?"

"Yes, well..."

"Did you get something for yourself?"

"Yes."

John just looked at him with confusion and watched as Sherlock went to the table to clear away some space. Slowly, and stiffly, John stood from his chair and took a step toward the table. "You--" he began.

Sherlock looked up at him, "Yes?"

"I--" he started again, but then he just gave a frustrated sigh.

"We've both done regrettable things, but then, our failures and short-comings often make us who we are. You've accepted my... indiscretions, and I wasn't even under orders... it would be senseless to rid oneself of a rare and true friend for the sake of the little bit of bad that came with all the good."

For a moment, John thought he might cry. There was an overwhelming flood of relief and gratitude. 

"Thank you."

"Don't be silly," said Sherlock, "It's only Chinese."

John couldn't help but laugh.

 

#

 

Sherlock decided it was best to read through the files given to him by the Major General before questioning John again. He'd not anticipated the almost catatonic response John had to revisiting those particular memories. Sooner or later they'd have to discuss Malik's death, but he could at least give John a couple days to recover. The files were sparse, but still provided more information than he'd had before. He at least had names and ages to work with, and a list of prisoners as well, though it seemed useless now.

He focused on the soldiers for now, sorting through the new information and pinning them to the wall. He took time to memorize each one's information. Now, laying on the couch, plucking at his violin, he went over the list of names.

_Major Reginald Watts, now Major General Watts, leg injury, Currently located in London_  
_Captain John Watson, Surgeon, Medically Discharged, Currently located in 221B Baker Street_  
_Lieutenant Michael "Boom Boom" Barron, Medically Discharged, Now Deceased_  
_Lieutenant Jeffery Fitz, retired, Currently missing, residence in Lairg, Scotland_  
_Lieutenant Richard Fowles, Medically Discharged, Currently located in Cardiff_  
_Lieutenant Henry O'Connor, Retired, Residence in Wellingborough_  
_Lieutenant Troy Patchett, Medically Discharged, Residence in Toronto, Canada_  
_Lieutenant Blake Thompson, Retired, Incarcerated in London_  
_2nd Lieutenant Gerald Atwood, Dishonorably Discharged, Now Deceased_  
_2nd Lieutenant Eugene O'Brian, Medically Discharged, Now Deceased_  
_2nd Lieutenant Vincent Pollack, Dishonorably Discharged, Residence in Brixton_  
_Officer Cadet Collin Graham, Dishonorably Discharged, No known current residence_  
_Officer Cadet Trevor Hesse, Medically Discharged, Now Deceased_

 

The amount of medical discharges was enough to capture anyone's attention. The dates of the discharges were even more glaring, five medical discharges and three dishonorable discharges all occurred within a month of one another, all attributed to incidents on the same date, though the details of the dishonorable discharge was unclear in the records. The only one of the six medical discharges listed that was not directly caused by whatever had happened at the Hovel approximately eight years ago was Captain John Watson, who'd received his injury in another skirmish nearly three years later. 

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, knowing he had no choice but to ask if he wanted details. Perhaps one day had been enough time to prepare for simpler questions? He lifted his head to examine the flat and found John sitting on the floor by the sofa watching television. Rather than ask how long he'd been sitting there, Sherlock instead jumped to the question at hand, "John, what happened at the Hovel that caused so many to be discharged?"

John turned to look at him, "I didn't think you knew I was here."

"Don't be stupid," said Sherlock, plucking at his violin, "Of course I knew."

John smiled at him and shook his head, before turning back around to look at the television. "Prisoner riot," he answered, "Nasty one."

"Did the 2nd Lieutenants and Officer Cadet assist in the riot?"

"No," John answered flatly, "They'd have been killed for treason. No, they were dishonorably discharged for conduct that led to the prisoner riot."

"What exactly did they do?"

John grabbed the television remote and switched it off, then he turned around so that he was sitting cross legged on the floor, facing Sherlock. "The Major had a structure he'd determined for interrogation methods. He took in the styles of each soldier, ranked and rated them, and then determined which prisoners received sessions with which soldiers for how long and how many days and so forth. So, for example, a new prisoner's first session would be with the less... creative blokes like Trevor whereas a more resistant or difficult prisoner would be matched with someone like Fitz or Thompson. Collin was a last ditch effort. If they managed through him without spilling information then we deemed them useless and had them shipped off to some other prison to make room for new people."

"But Graham was just an Officer Cadet."

"An eager one. He was vicious."

"Graham went too far with one of the prisoners."

"Got a hold of a child. He didn't break any of the Major's rules, but he hit her hard enough with some blunt object to break a rib and puncture a lung."

"She died."

John nodded, "Despite my best efforts."

"Why did the other two receive dishonorable discharges as well?"

"Children were only used in sessions under surveillance of three officers. They were to receive minimal damage. The point was to distress the parent, not to actually torture the child."

Sherlock tried to piece it together, "Atwood and Pollack were interrogating a parent whose child had been brought in and for some reason brought in the officer cadet instead of another officer."

Nodding, John replied, "They failed to follow protocol, orders, whatever you want to call it, and they allowed our top tier interrogator to work on a child."

"Probably egged him on."

"Some would ask why the father didn't stop it."

"He didn't have the information."

"Most likely."

"The father was returned to his cell along the other prisoners, the news of the girl's death was delivered in some form or fashion, and the prisoners--"

"Rioted," said Sherlock, "How soon was this after Malik Al-Basri's death?" 

John flinched at the name, but answered anyway, "About six months."

"So the son was already gone from--"

"He was still there. We were questioning his mother as well."

Sherlock sat up properly and looked down at John, "The entire family was..."

John nodded once more, "Father, mother, son, two daughters."

"Then Hakim was part of the riot?"

"Correct."

"Why didn't Trevor Hesse suspect one of the rioting prisoners over Collin?"

"You could probably deduce that better than I could guess it," John answered. Sherlock gave a low hum of agreement, "Why the letter with a three on it?"

"I thought you'd ask that first," John said with a weak smile, "Hakim is replicating the styles of the soldiers. Trevor was mild, the Major told him if he wasn't going to physically push them then he had to get in their heads. So, he started delivering notes to the prisoners before hand. They'd have a countdown or a time or a description. Built up the anticipation in new arrivals."

"So then O'Brian used strategic cutting, Barron used, not bombs?"

"Burns."

"And Atwood? He wouldn't have been allowed to bleed them dry."

"He did all his sessions with the prisoners hanging upside down after the equipment with the pigs came in."

Sherlock nodded in understanding, "Fitz removed body parts." The detective furrowed his brow and looked down at John, perplexed, "Why aren't you upset about the finger?"

"You can live without a finger. Fitz is still alive, probably will be for a while."

"We can still find him."

John smiled, "We can still find him."

"Why does he call you?"

With a sigh, John answered, "That first night, when he called, his greeting was, "Hello, Doctor Watson, my friend, it's been a long time since we had a chat."

Sherlock only furrowed his brow more, not understanding the significance. John took his silence as a prompt to continue, "The prisoners, even after the pigs, always called me Doctor Watson instead of Captain. The children especially were always happy to see me, probably because I'd bring them candy. When I'd walk in after a session was complete, I'd heal them, help them, and talk to them. Sometimes I'd give them precious information about what was happening in their home towns, I'd talk about the weather, or England. I lost track of how many would break down while I stitched up their wounds and finally tell me the answers to the questions they'd been asked. I'd give them extra food or another blanket as thanks for their cooperation. Malik called them chats. I'd walk in with my med kit after he'd been through some brutal session and he'd smile at me, swollen and bloodied and broken, he'd smile and say "Hello, Doctor Watson, my friend, is it time to chat?"

John looked down and bit his bottom lip, his left hand began to tremor slightly, but it was nothing compared to the prior talk. 

Sherlock spoke, "He's finishing the session, calling to have a chat with Doctor Watson. Taunting you because you can't fix them."

"Perhaps."

They were silent for a moment, Sherlock busy sliding pieces into places and John distracted by ghosts of his past. Then Sherlock spoke again, "This is more than revenge. He got a hold of this treasure and wants the keys, he's after whatever is inside."

John looked up expectantly.

"What's inside? What is the tontine?"

"I don't know."

"How can you not--oh, thirteen but only twelve. You don't have a key."

"Not one of my own, no."

There was a lull in the conversation and they both startled a bit as their mobile's simultaneously chimed. Both scrambled to locate their devices and check the incoming message.

_Troy Patchett reported missing. Last seen at an airport in Toronto. Will send more information. -Reggi Watts_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't know, a Chelsea Grin is a type of torture technique which cuts the flesh of the cheeks. The Joker in the Dark Knight series sports a Chelsea Grin, for reference.


	6. Blake Thompson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter six!

John and Sherlock were silent for the duration of the taxi ride to Major General Watts's office. John was preoccupied with his own thoughts and concerns while Sherlock considered the case. Something wasn't quite right but he couldn't put his finger on it. The files on the soldiers were lacking in relevant information, the list of prisoners was just that, a list of prisoners and little more, and the 'treasure' couldn't possibly be that difficult to break into, so why was Hakim bothering with all this unless it was for revenge and show? He cast a sideways glance at John, the envelope that had been returned to him likely contained Hesse's key. Perhaps he'd be able to take a closer look at it. 

John shifted in his seat and glanced at Sherlock, catching the detective's eye before looking away. Sherlock frowned, was that guilt he was reading in his friend's crossed arms and tense shoulder? A sigh escaped the detective, John had lied about something, probably the contents of the 'treasure'. More orders keeping him silent?

"Which part?" said the detective, startling John from his thoughts. "Hmm?" responded the soldier. Sherlock stared at the window, "You lied. Which part?"

"I..."

"You don't have to tell me the truth, I assume you did it because you are obligated to, but at least tell me which part isn't true so it doesn't tamper with the accurate information."

"The tontine."

"You do have a key?"

"No."

"You know what's inside."

"I know one of the items inside."

"Not a complete lie then."

The silence took hold again, as it seemed to do so often now. It wasn't the same easy going silence that accompanied the comfortable living habits of the residents of 221B, rather it was a tense and angry silence that threatened to overtake them. For once, it was John who broke through it. "Sherlock," he said, looking at the detective who continued to watch the passing streets, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be s--"

"No," said John, "I am. I'm sorry that you've had to get involved in this, and I'm sorry I've lied to you for so long and about so many things, and I'm sorry that I'm not who you thought I was--"

"You're still John. Now you're just John with a slightly more morbid background."

"Sherlock," John began again, but he was interrupted by the taxi reaching its destination. The detective sprung from the car before it came to a complete stop, leaving John behind to pay the fare. They were greeted at the door by a young soldier who led them straight to the Major General's office. Watts was seated behind his enormous desk, a phone pressed to his ear. When he saw them enter he quickly excused himself from the phone call and stood to greet them, "Thank you for rushing down here."

"What happened to Patchett?" was all Sherlock had to say in response. Watts gave a curt, military nod, "Straight to business then. As you're already aware, Troy was living in Toronto, he was being moved to a safe house in another city. He was supposed to be taking a private flight, he arrived at the airport, picked up his ticket, and then disappeared."

"Why was he just now being moved to a safe house?" asked Sherlock.

"He asked to be moved," replied Watts, "felt he might be the next target."

"Yes, but why weren't all of the operatives from the Hovel moved into safe houses after O'Brian's murder? You knew even then who was responsible."

"Er, well, we did offer," said Watts, "but like Captain Watson, they all refused the--"

"Refused?" Sherlock whipped his entire body around to look at John. He towered angrily over the soldier, "You refused a safe house?"

John sighed and gave Watts an irritated glare, "Yes."

"Why?"

"You weren't cleared yet."

Sherlock read the lines in his face and the somewhat defeated, yet concerned look on his friend's face. _Of course, John would have had to leave without an explanation and without telling him where he was going. His departure would have sent the wrong message, it would have seemed he was leaving because he was still angry about the two year long disappearing act._ "Oh," was all the detective said before turning back to Watts. "Well why didn't any of the others accept safe houses?"

"They all had their reasons," answered Watts, "A few didn't want to leave their family unprotected, a couple of them fell off the radar on their own, Hesse said we deserved it. He didn't run or hide, he just waited for the inevitable."

"Honest through the end," piped John, "He was a good man."

Sherlock ignored the sentiment and pushed on, "You didn't ask us here to just to confirm Patchett is missing. What do you have for me?"

Watts smiled at him and pushed a manila envelope forward. Sherlock picked it up, opened it, and quickly skimmed over the contents, "These were taken at the airport?"

"The first few, keep going and you'll find some from a train station in London and another in Scotland."

John leaned over to look at the pictures in Sherlock's hands, "That's Hakim," he said, recognizing the face in the photograph.

"Are you sure, Captain?" asked Watts.

"He's changed a lot, grown and healthy, but that's him."

Sherlock hummed as he examined each photograph, holding them this way and that and checking the date and time on each. "Are we certain Fitz is still alive?"

"He'd have sent us a body or at least an important part of one, made it obvious," said Watts, "Besides, Fitz always dragged things out. I predict it'll be another month before Hakim kills him."

Sherlock tucked the photos back in the envelope, "Is there anything else?"

"Not at the moment."

"Keep me informed on any other changes of locations of the soldiers," demanded Sherlock as he turned and left, coat swishing behind him. John gave a quick parting word to his superior and was soon at Sherlock's side.

 

#

 

The taxi ride back to Baker Street was calmer. Sherlock had engrossed himself with the photos, working to deduce anything he could about Hakim. _Early twenties, fit physique and stance suggests combat training, non-religious, no family or spouse, long-term immigrant, accustomed to British customs._

Upon returning to the flat, Sherlock had seated himself at his laptop and quickly gone to work. John sat in his chair, picked up whatever novel he'd left nearby, and pretended to read. He suspected Sherlock would be disrupting him shortly anyway. After ten minutes of fake-reading the same page, the detective proved his suspicions true.

"Tell me the specific styles of questioning or torture used by each soldier," blurted Sherlock, not even looking away from his laptop.

John closed the novel and tossed it aside, "Right. Well, you already know a few. O'Brian used small knives, preferred a switchblade he kept on him at all times. Gerald mostly just used them like human punching bags, kept 'em strapped up by their feet. Hesse stuck to lighter methods, basic beatings, broken fingers, the like. Boom Boom used burns since he couldn't use explosives, used cigarettes, lighters, brands. Fitz severed things, probably figured that out on your own though. Pollack and Fowles usually worked together to do things like water-boarding and pressing. They liked the older styles, spent a lot of time researching the Inquisition. O'Connor had found some old bullwhip somewhere or other and, well, he wasn't really all that clever. Thompson on the other hand, he... he was always easy to clean up after, he'd learned all the major pressure points of the body and would focus on those spots. Knew how to cause incredible amounts of pain without actually wounding the prisoner so it would go on for much longer than the others. Patchett didn't really do his own sessions, he just made the prisoner's lives miserable on a daily basis because he was in charge of their 'general care'. He decided who got food and how much and what quality."

"And Collin Graham?"

John let out a heavy sigh before answering, "All of the above and more. The crazy bastard did whatever came to mind. Watts required there be at least one other person in the room with him to make sure he didn't kill anyone or break any of the rules. I once had to put a mans intestines back in his torso after a session with Collin." 

Sherlock noted the tremor returning to John's hand, but didn't say anything. Instead, he added the information to the spreadsheet he'd been working on. It made sense that Doctor Watson had managed to gain information during his 'chats'. He was the only one who showed kindness to the prisoners, to show an ounce of sympathy. Sherlock finally turned his full attention to John, "Were you ordered to comfort them?"

"I was ordered to treat their wounds."

"But the 'chats', and the candy, and the shows of gratitude, those were--"

"Watts didn't like it at first. He wanted us all to be the bad cop, but I couldn't be that any more than Hesse could be a brute. It wasn't in our nature."

"Hesse's training didn't go well, he ended up working alongside the person he was supposed to replace."

"Fitz."

"They wanted Trevor Hesse to replace Fitz?"

"I never understood it either, Watts was always confident, but he just wasn't meant for it."

"Why did Watts allow you to continue showing the prisoners kindness if he didn't like it?"

"It turned out to be an effective method for obtaining information, more than anything else the others did, but it was only effective because of what they did."

Sherlock hummed and nodded in agreement, "How did Malik Al-Basri die?"

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, turning to look anywhere but at Sherlock. He subconsciously moved a hand down to rub at his once injured knee and clenched the other into a fist, "I told you," he said, "I killed him."

"But how? You were their caretaker, not their abuser. If anyone was to violate Watts's requirement that they were kept living it should not have been you. More importantly, you weren't given a dishonorable discharge or... were you punished at all for it?"

John didn't respond right away, instead he sat in his chair, the living embodiment of guilt.

"I need the full story, John. I need to know what happened to Hakim's father."

"You're asking the wrong question."

Sherlock blinked at him and then rephrased his inquiry, "Why?"

John's jaw clenched, "Do you know much about dog fighting?"

"What does--yes, I know about dog fighting."

"Do you know what they do to the dogs that are too badly injured?"

"They can't take them to a vet so they are usually put down," Sherlock said, annoyed with the turn of the conversation, then, "Oh."

"The Al-Basri family had been brought in over a year before Malik's death. The parents and eldest daughter worked together in a bio-chemistry lab, we were trying to obtain information on what they'd been developing, but they were... stronger than anticipated."

"They kept silent because the others kept silent."

"Malik had the most information, that much became evident early on, so he was treated to the worst of it. He spent a great deal of time with Fitz and Thompson, and then with Collin Graham."

"It was after a session with Collin that you killed him?"

"Sherlock, the men I worked with were hardened to gore and pain. Things like that just didn't phase them, even I got... accustomed to it."

"You've never seized up at crime scene, I always attributed it to adrenaline."

John gave a faint laugh, "Even at the worst crime scenes we've been to, I always thought 'Well, I've seen worse." He shook his head as if disbelieving his own words, "I knew it was going to be horrible before I ever walked in the door. Reggi had told Collin to pull something from him or we'd have to give up. I think he took it as a challenge. Thompson was supposed to stay and watch, but twenty minutes in he called for someone else. Fitz lasted about forty minutes, Barron about the same. O'Brian stayed in for the rest of the session, though he admitted later that he hadn't truly been watching, he couldn't. Eugine and Boom Boom both refused to ever sit in on one of Collin's sessions again. 

"Injuries tell a story. I walked into that room and read the most frightening book I've ever read. The bindings on his wrists were so tight they were cutting through the skin, there was so much blood on his chest I wasn't sure how many cuts I would find. He was partially scalped, an eye hung from its socket, his fingertips were all bleeding from where his fingernails had been torn off, his arms were both broken multiple times, one was dislocated on top of that. And Malik, barely breathing, eye dangling, somehow still conscious turned his head and said, "Time for a chat?"

"I set to cleaning him up, tried to get a full account, see to it everything was getting proper care, but that bloody eye... I was going to have to remove it entirely. I'd already given him a syringe full of pain killer, but it was low grade. Watts seemed insistent they at least feel uncomfortable while I worked. Malik must have seen on my face just how bad it really was. I was stitching up a wound on his side and he started talking. I kept working while he talked and talked and he told me so many things and I wished I hadn't heard any of them and then he said, "Doctor Watson, my friend, I can't chat anymore. Never again, please."

Sherlock watched as John, shaking in his chair, wiped away tears that escaped him, "He asked you to kill him?"

John nodded, and through a heavy breath, he said, "Shit, Sherlock, I... I've never told anyone that."

The detective furrowed his brow, "Well it was confidential, you weren't--"

"No, Sherlock," John looked him in the eye, despite tears and shaking frame, "I never told anyone."

"Not even..."

"No one."

"So, according to record, what happened?"

"I snapped," said John, "According to records I had an outburst, a break, they sent me away for two weeks of 'vacation' and then brought me right back to the Hovel."

"Your punishment was a vacation?"

"It was all downplayed in the official records. Officially, I saw the damage done to the prisoner, snapped, and shot him to put him out of his misery."

"The unofficial story?"

"Malik asked me to kill him, just once, I didn't need convincing. I asked him how he'd prefer it, his answer was 'quick'. I was so angry. I asked Malik to wait just ten minutes more, he only nodded at me. I set down my medical supplies and charged through the door of Watt's office where Collin was reporting in. I don't even remember what I said, specifically, a lot of swearing and yelling and name calling. Watts told me I was out of order, so I drew my gun and put it to the back of Collin's head and said "This is out of order". Gun in hand, I dragged Collin by his shirt collar all the way back to Malik. Watts was close behind, and, well, Doctor Watson with his gun in his hand, dragging Collin Graham through the halls with Major Watts following behind screaming for him to stop got a lot of attention from both soldiers and prisoners. When Watts saw Malik, he stiffened up, I guess Collin had understated the extent of the damage. I remember shoving Collin to the ground, shoving the gun up to his eye, screaming at him, asking if he'd even managed to get any information. He just sat there, panicked and practically sobbing, it was pathetic. I raised my gun and fired a shot into the wall, told him to answer me, when he finally screamed 'no' I lifted my gun again, I looked at Malik in the eye, and I swear, Sherlock, he smiled. I shot him. I shot him in the head with Collin and Watts and some of the other men watching. I holstered my gun, turned back to Watts and told him to get his God damned men under control. No one said a word to me when I stormed off. Think I left them all in shock."

Sherlock took in the information with a deep breath, "That, was rather brilliant."

"Watts sent me off for a couple weeks to 'get my head together', but--"

"He didn't want to discharge you or punish you formally because you obtained more information than the other men, the prisoners wouldn't trust a new doctor, losing you would only make the objective more difficult to fulfill. Furthermore, your display didn't damage your position in the Hovel, but cemented it. The prisoners saw your empathy, your understanding that they wished for death, and the men feared you may snap again. And you knew, you knew all this when you did it. You could have simply overdosed Malik on pain killers or shot him in the room without an audience. Did you know he'd send you away?"

John nodded, his eyes drier now, but his face still tense and stoic, "Yes. I wasn't sure how much freedom he'd give me, but I knew I would be sent off base for a time. We were all required to take 'time off' regularly to prevent things like my 'display' but I'd refused them the last two times running. I didn't trust the other men's medical skills."

"Absolutely brilliant, John."

"Sherlock, I murdered a man, that isn't brilliant."

"You assisted in his suicide, John, nothing more. No, you're brilliant because of the way you did it. Am I wrong that you used the time away from the Hovel to obtain something Malik had been working on, something he'd told you about?"

"Yes, no, I... I did retrieve something that Malik told me about."

"And then you hid it, you hid it somewhere no one would find it for at least another forty years and by then, it wouldn't be of any use or matter."

With a nod, John confirmed, "Yes."

"The tontine, it's a chest, covered in locks, and inside isn't just money, no, it is anything of value the soldiers of the Hovel deemed worthy of putting in. Isn't it?"

"Yes," said John, "like a really expensive memory box."

"Full of stolen goods, money, and something else. Something worth killing for."

John didn't respond.

"You hid whatever Malik sent you to find in the tontine."


	7. Henry O'Connor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! It took me forever to find time to write this month, but here is Chapter 7! Thank you for your continued support!

"Imagine Baskerville. Imagine that aching sense of paranoia, that feeling that something just isn't quite right. Feel it settle in your gut, clenching down on your stomach, expecting something or someone to jump out at any moment. Imagine the way it shortens your breath, fogs your mind. Imagine how the slightest hint, the smallest suggestion of a threat sends your imagination into overdrive and causes the fear to clamp down on you. The sweaty palms, the tense muscles, the shaky frame, shortened breath, racing heart, narrowed vision, all because a faint sound in the area sounded a bit like a dog, like a hound, like _the_ hound, the hound that the others have seen. Imagine that paralyzing fear that grips you and pulls you to the edge of panic and holds you there, unable to react, unable to defend yourself from your perceived threat because your brain is panicking, unable to create the right response to the fear stimulus, unable to correctly trigger the fight or flight response due to the strong dose of chemicals breathed in earlier in the day. 

"Now, imagine that paranoia, that fear, but replace that paralysis with aggression. Imagine your brain perceives a suggested threat as being within a dangerous distance and instead of sinking to the ground in fear, you rush forward. Your heart pumps faster, but your blood vessels constrict and your breathing quickens as your body floods with nonepinephrine. Your vision blurs, you shake, but you also hit and kick and bite and beat back your perceived enemy. But, this doesn't happen all at once. No, each stage takes days or weeks to go through culminating in a massive trigger of fear and rage and resulting inevitably to a path of destruction. And it isn't just you with these creeping paranoid feelings, no, its your neighbors and your teachers and your doctors and your politicians. Its men and women and children, maybe even some household pets suddenly more uneasy, more temperamental than normal. And then, one day someone puts a name to this feeling. The people are unsettled because something is invading, quietly, and silently. Some invisible enemy is living among us and we must seek it out and destroy it. They'll label this enemy: Witch, Communist, Terrorist. But the ensuing hysteria is pushed further and farther than past hysterics by the surging anger in the people and so instead of fake courts and trials and imprisonment the result is rioting. Citizens killing citizens because they were perceived to be the enemy. Suddenly everyone is the homicidal maniac. Why? Because once again a chemical is blocking the proper reactions of the brain and forcing it to respond with the fight reflex to a perceived suggested threat. But this chemical isn't breathed in, it isn't in the water, nor in our pharmaceuticals, no. No this chemical is in our orchards and our fields. Its growing in our fruit and vegetables and grains. Every time we eat a meal, we give ourselves a small dose and it builds and builds until suddenly a spark sets off every ticking time bomb disguised as a person.

"Imagine, if you will, that you learn this exists while you are cleaning out the wounds of a beaten and broken man who is bound to a table, bleeding profusely, one eye hanging from the socket, arms broken, and yet still somehow conscious and able to tell horror stories. Imagine this man asks you to find the only remaining physical evidence of this research and to destroy it and, if you have time, to please kill him. 

"And you agree, because it is the right thing to do.

"So you shoot him, and then you go on vacation. 

"And while you are off base you go to the town the dead man told you to go to, but it is currently an active war zone and getting to the loose floor board of the dead man's former home is going to be much more difficult than previously realized. Finally, a week later, you manage to get to it, but you aren't alone long enough to do more than hide the evidence and wait to destroy it later, but later doesn't come and then you are back on base where they rip out people's eyeballs for information about chemical weapons that turn people into homicidal maniacs and because you shot one of the prisoners they won't leave you alone for more than five minutes and so you decide instead of destroying the evidence you'll have to hide it somewhere no one will find it until its useless anyway.

"So you lock it into a box with a bunch of other treasures and you think you're in the clear, nobody knows what you've done.

"Imagine ten years later the son of the dead man begins killing everyone you worked with.

"Imagine he has the chest you hid the collection of seeds in.

"Imagine you aren't sure whether or not he knows that weapon is there.

"Imagine you aren't sure whether or not he is working alone.

"Imagine you don't trust your government with those secrets.

"What do you do?

"Sherlock. What do I do?"

"You tell your best friend who happens to be the world's only consulting detective and then you find that chest and you destroy it and those seeds."

"Alright."

 

#

 

"I need to see Hesse's key."

"Yeah, alright," said John, tossing aside his book and standing, "Gimme a minute."

"No denial?"

"Honestly, Sherlock, I don't have much to hide at this point."

"But there is still more to hide?"

"I sometimes drink milk straight from the carton when you aren't around," replied John, "There, now you know everything." Sherlock only scoffed with a smile in response, but John continued, "Glad I got that off my chest, I was starting to lose sleep," he muttered jokingly as he dashed up the stairs to retrieve Hesse's key to the tontine.

While John rummaged upstairs, Sherlock made his way to the kitchen table to remove whatever slide currently occupied the microscope. John returned quickly after and placed the little brass key on the table with a clink, then he added a second key, and a third. Sherlock looked down at them with his eyebrows furrowed and a deep crease settling above his eyes.

John pointed at the first, "Hesse", he said, then sliding his finger over, "Atwood, O'Brian."

"Why do you have--"

"Atwood always used his birthday as his combination on things."

"Like a hotel safe."

"Like a hotel safe," confirmed John.

"O'Brian had willed him his key," said Sherlock.

"Kinda surprised me to be honest, didn't think they liked each other much."

Sherlock looked carefully at the keys, not touching them at first, just glaring at them sitting on the table. John seated himself across from Sherlock, prepared for questions. The detective looked up at him, "They all have the same bit pattern."

"The chest only has one keyhole."

The detective examined each key carefully, while John sat patiently allowing Sherlock to figure it out for himself. It didn't take long, now that he could see the key.

"They're numbered, 9, 10, and 12. There is only one keyhole because it isn't actually a keyhole, it's a scanner. Each key contains either a cheap magnetic strip or some other form of identification with a unique code. They must be inserted in a certain order, which is why Hakim doesn't just pry it open with a crowbar."

Sherlock looked to John to see if he was correct, but John only lifted an eyebrow, there was more to be deduced. An electronic lock could still be pried open with a crowbar so there was something else, "Boom Boom."

"Very well stated," said John approvingly.

"This certainly makes our job easier."

"Does it?" asked John.

"Well, yes. Watts hired me to catch Hakim and stop him, you need to get to the contents of the chest first to destroy evidence. If we find Hakim we find the chest and if we find the chest we have an adequate means of disposal at hand."

"He strapped that thing with enough explosives to kill whomever tries to open it without the keys."

"Even better."

"Better?"

"Yes, better."

John inhaled as if to ask a question but then shook his head as if he'd thought better of it. Instead he said, "Reggi knows I have Hesse's key, but he isn't 100% on the other two. I'm fairly certain Hakim is aware I have all three. I'm pretty sure I'm last on the hit list, so he wouldn't mind me hoarding them for him."

"Logical."

"One other thing," said John, "Something that is bothering me."

Sherlock hummed at him, his attention returned to the key.

"I don't think Hakim is working alone."

"Certainly not."

"No, I mean. I think he's working with someone high up."

"Logical."

"You mean--"

"It does seem likely that he has government sources of information based on how easily he's been able to find everyone, Patchett especially."

"Guess I was a bit slow on that one."

"Faster than Watts," replied Sherlock.

 

#

 

The phone rang at at 10:23 that night, while Sherlock plucked at his violin and John had just stood up to lay down for bed. John took his mobile in hand and tapped the button to answer, but said nothing as he placed it by his ear.

_"Hello, old friend."_

"Patchett?"

 _"You are quick to business tonight!"_ he laughed, _"No, it isn't Patchett if you can believe, though he is just as unpleasant as ever. Truthfully, I have killed no one on this evening."_

"Then to what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?"

He chuckled again, _"Though I did not kill him, someone is dead. The pieces will arrive in London soon."_

"Fitz, then."

_"Yes, I'm afraid so. Would you believe this man? I was removing part of his leg when he broke free of a restraint."_

"..."

_"He managed to take my saw from me, but instead of attacking, he slit his own throat. Some people just like to die on their own terms, like my father."_

"Your father?"

_"My father always said you were a good man, Doctor Watson, he said you would help him when the time came, and then you did."_

'Hakim--"

_"Yes, Doctor Watson?"_

"Do you intend to kill me?"

He laughed, _"Good night, Doctor Watson. You may have to sign for your package."_

The line went dead.


	8. Jeffery Fitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite popular belief, I am actually still alive. (and writing again!!) 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your patience, I greatly appreciate your continued support. Special thanks to Blacktail_chorus for their motivation.

As it turned out, John did not have to sign for the packages.

The packages arrived in the middle of the night three days later. Plain, unmarked, brown packages set outside the door of 221B for anyone to find. John couldn’t help but appreciate the odd turn that he was the one hauling a dead body into the apartment for once.

As he set the last of the four boxes down in a stack near the kitchen, Sherlock surprised him with a demand, “List all possible moles in Watts’s office.”

John looked up from the boxes, somewhat surprised Sherlock wasn’t more excited about the dead body delivery service. Instead, he found the detective in the same spot he’d been in for at least five hours. He was laying with his back on the floor but his feet on the couch, as if he was waiting for the room’s gravity to shift him into an upright sitting position. His palms were pressed neatly together under his chin. John wondered sometimes whether Sherlock stayed in one position for so long because his limbs became numb and he didn't want anyone to see him shaking out pins and needles. 

“Quickly John, possible moles.”

“Right, well there aren't exactly a whole lot of people in his office with complete access.”

“Don’t neglect the secretaries, John.”

“There are two clerks, Joshua McPhearson and Hilda Hemsworth.”

“That’s a terrible name.”

“Hilda?” said John critically, “You do realize your name is Sherlock?”

The detective turned his head sideways to look at him with a cocked eyebrow, “What’s wrong with Sherlock?”

John gave him a crooked smile, “Nothing.” He moved to sit in his chair and continued his list, “The secretary is a younger woman, Melody Jones, and of course there’s Watts himself.”

“You consider Watts a suspect?”

“There are only four people who work in that office, he’s got the most clearance, shouldn't rule out possibilities, even if I don’t personally believe them likely.”

“Hmmm…”

“Did you just want to see if I’d list Watts?”

“Yes.”

John sighed, “You do realize I just hauled a body up the staircase. The least you could do is act a little excited.”

“I was waiting for you to ask me to look at it.”

“Why?”

“Honestly John, how often will I get that opportunity?”

John threw the overstuffed Union Jack pillow at his face.

#

While he pulled off the strips of tape keeping the first box closed, the detective briefly wondered if this was why some people became so excited over trivial holidays like Christmas or birthdays.  
  
Sherlock spent the better part of the day laying the pieces of Fitz out (annoyingly on the plastic painter’s sheet John had insisted on) and examining it for clues. Then he’d looked over the boxes, searching for fingerprints and marks. Finally, when John had vacated the living area, he stuffed the important parts into the fridge and freezer and called Watts to have someone pick up the rest, which he tossed back into the boxes and set outside the apartment door. Then, he settled into his chair by the fireplace.

First priority was identifying the mole. Jones seemed unlikely as she was preoccupied with her pregnancy and two lovers. McPhearson was also unlikely based off his alcoholism and gambling problems. Hilda Hemsworth, on the other hand, was an ideal candidate. She’d been in charge of establishing contact with the members of the tontine and the set-up of safe houses. She’d have known exactly which airport and at what time to catch Patchett. 

But then, there was Watts. He would have all the information Hemsworth had access to, plus more. He’d also have had the pull to convince Patchett to leave his safe fortress of icy wilderness for a British safe-house. What could have convinced Patchett to leave his home? Surely it had been safer than any place Watts could have offered. 

Where was the motive though? Hemsworth could easily be motivated by money, or blackmail perhaps, but Watts? Watts was putting in the effort to stop what was happening, he was translucent and eager to help put an end to this.

“John!” he called, “John, I require your assistance!”

He listened as John hurried down the steps, concern evident in the speed of the steps. The former soldier arrived in the room in his pajama bottoms and a white undershirt. He must’ve been preparing for bed.

“My mobile is in my coat pocket. I need you to text Lestrade.”

John gave him a look that suggested he might kill him in a somewhat interesting fashion. Though, for the first time it occurred to Sherlock that John probably _could_ kill him in a somewhat interesting fashion if he felt so inclined. Instead, John reached into the coat pocket and retrieved the mobile. 

“Tell him to arrest Hilda Hemsworth and hold her for questioning.”

Sherlock watched with mild amusement as John struggled with the buttons and finally sent the text. He started to return the mobile, but Sherlock stopped him, “Wait for his reply.”

“I’m not your secretary.”

“Of course not, John”

The mobile chirped in John’s hand and with an irritated sigh John read it, “He says that’s not his division.”

“We’ll go down to speak with her in the morning.”

 

#

When John woke in the morning, Sherlock was waiting for him, sitting on the couch with his coat and scarf already on. The doctor, however, refused to leave until he’d eaten breakfast. John had almost convinced Sherlock to eat a piece of toast when Lestrade knocked on the door of the flat. Defeated, John stood to answer the door. 

“We were just about to go down to the station,” said John.

“I wouldn't bother,” replied the DI, “She’s dead.”

“Is the Scotland Yard not even capable of arresting one woman?” asked Sherlock, annoyed.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, “She had a police scanner/radio set up in her house. By the time we’d got there, she’d shot herself.”

“I need to see the crime scene,” said Sherlock, whisking past John and Lestrade and speeding down the stairs.

“It was a suicide!” yelled Lestrade.

“How many people shoot themselves just because a police officer is coming over?” Sherlock yelled back.

Lestrade looked to John for sympathy, but received only a shrug of the shoulder, “He’s got a point.”


	9. Vincent Pollack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 was short and you've all been so patient so I've managed two chapters tonight! I hope you enjoy it!
> 
>  
> 
> Also, did you know this website exists? http://www.empireonline.com/features/sherlock-apartment

Sherlock impatiently waited for Lestrade to drive them to Hemsworth's house in the suburbs of London. He didn't even wait for the car to come to a complete stop before swinging the passenger door open and exiting the car.

"He's in a hurry," said the DI.

"I have to say, for once I'm just as excited," said John.

"The woman's dead!"

"That house may have the first real clue we've got since starting this case," John said, now moving past the line of police tape to follow Sherlock into the house. Lestrade and John walked in to find the detective lifting items off of various surfaces.

"Find something?" asked the DI.

"Dust!" answered Sherlock, with a smile, "Finally!"

Lestrade turned to John, but again the doctor could only shrug and lift his eyebrows in confusion. 

"Dust!" said Sherlock, moving on to another shelf.

"What's that burnt smell?" asked John.

"Oh, uh, she was apparently baking cookies when she shot herself."

"Cookies?"

"Yeah."

"Odd choice."

"The cookies or the suicide?"

John frowned at him, "The body still here?"

"No, they hauled it off earlier, Molly should have it by now, but the splatter is still, uh, in the kitchen."

John nodded and moved past the ecstatic detective to take a look at the blood. The kitchen was a narrow space, the majority of the blood was splattered along the back wall between the cabinets and pantry. Two oven mitts were thrown near the base boards of the cabinet, close to where she would have fallen. He took a look into the oven to find the cookies, or what might have been cookies at one time. They looked more like disintegrating charcoal at this point. The doctor walked back to the detectives, "Are you sure she killed herself?"

"Yes," answered Lestrade as Sherlock answered with a firm, "No!"

"She had the gun in her hand!" answered Lestrade.

"The dust, Lestrade, says otherwise," said Sherlock.

"The cookies do to," chimed in John, "Honestly Lestrade, even I can tell this wasn't a suicide."

"Don't you start t--" started Lestrade.

"What's this about dust?" asked John, ignoring the DI.

"The only surface that's been dusted is the one the scanner is set on."

"Attempting to erase evidence that it had been recently placed there. So, somebody hears the police are headed this way, interrupts Hilda's baking to shoot her--"

"Forgets to turn off the oven, cleans this surface, plants the scanner, and leaves in a hurry."

"Leaves from?"

"He'd have been here, in front of the scanner when the police arrived at the door. He quickly moved back towards the bedroom, knocking the side table and tipping the picture on the wall in the hall." Sherlock moved past the items and into a back bedroom, where he poked his head out the already open window. "Foot prints!" he yelled.

"Of course," said Lestrade, "foot prints."

 

#

 

John called for a taxi while Sherlock finished telling Lestrade how to do his job. Offering to pay double the fare got one out to the suburban crime scene rather quickly. When it arrived, Sherlock quickly corralled John into the backseat and gave the address for Watts's office.

"So," said John, "Reggi?"

"It would certainly appear so."

"Rather unfortunate."

"I don't understand the motive."

"Maybe he left something in the chest we don't know about," suggested the doctor.

"Maybe he found out about the seeds," replied the detective.

"If that's what Hakim is after, how did he get Reggi to cooperate?"

"Blackmail, most likely."

John sighed and stared out the window, "What did you get yourself into?"

They remained silent for a time, John staring through the window and Sherlock staring at John. Just a block away from their destination, John broke the silence, "I thought I told you to stop looking at me like that."

"You also said I wouldn't like what I found if I kept looking. Is there something I've missed?" asked Sherlock as the cab came to a stop in front of their destination.

"No, no you've found the worst," replied John, still looking away and reaching for the door handle.

"And yet," said Sherlock, "I'm still looking."

John paused, but exited the cab without looking over at his flatmate. By the time Sherlock was next to him on the pavement, he was focused solely on getting into Watts's office. They entered the building as normal and moved toward the section of the building that housed Watts and his office staff. John's shoulders squared, the people around them were acting normally, busy with their daily affairs, but something just didn't feel right. Sherlock appeared to be acting as normal, but normal for him was something of an enigma to everyone else to begin with.

They opened the double doors that led to the secretary's desk, but found it vacant. Sherlock moved around the desk to the door of Watts's office. John's nerves set fire as Sherlock opened the door, but it too was empty. "Think he's turned tail?"

"Probably run off to a safe house of his own," answered the detective as he began to work out the password to Watts's computer. John stood stoically near the desk, behind Sherlock. The detective managed it quickly, scoffing at the simplicity as he quickly went to work looking through files and emails. John turned away and looked over the notebooks of files and documents located on the shelves behind Watts's desk. He browsed through them, on the off chance he might find something of use. 

The former soldier was flipping through a series of briefs when he heard the click of the gun. It was rare indeed for someone to sneak up not only on John, but on Sherlock as well. The former soldier spun on his heal, pulling his gun from where it was tucked behind his back. 

Two shots fired, one from either side of the room. 

As Collin Graham dropped his aim to clutch at his shoulder, John took a second shot but missed as Collin had begun a hasty retreat. In other circumstances, Captain Watson would have pursued but he had other matters to tend to, namely the bullet wound in Sherlock's neck that was causing him to bleed profusely over the Major's desk. 

Doctor Watson moved quickly, re-holstering his gun and grabbing hold of his mobile with one hand, he took hold of Sherlock's scarf and began applying pressure with the other. Before the operator could even begin her script, John was quickly giving her an address, describing the wound, and giving a blood type. Once the operator had confirmed the address, he let go of his phone so that he could focus entirely on Sherlock.

Sherlock squinched his eyebrows and attempted to say something, but John chastised him, "Shut up you wanker. And keep still or you'll bleed out."

The detective rolled his eyes and pointed at the computer screen, taking hold of the scarf and applying the necessary pressure himself.

"Do you ever stop working?" John said as he looked at the screen. It was an email, a rather idiotic email about the weather as far as John could tell but clearly Sherlock thought it important. "Fine, I'll print it," he said with a click of the mouse. The printer set in motion, and John returned to Sherlock's wound. The detectives grip was weakening and his eyes beginning to lose focus and the scarf grew heavier with blood. John nervously surrendered Sherlock to the care of the ambulance technicians as they arrived. He grabbed the printed email and stuffed it into his pocket as he followed the gurney carrying his life from the room. He bullied his way into the ambulance with Sherlock and then sat and watched medical professionals care for his dying friend for the second time.


	10. Richard Fowles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two chapters left!! Heading towards the finale and some answers!!

"Oh do stop fussing, John," croaked a rather irritated Sherlock, "It's just a flesh wound."

"You were shot," replied the doctor, " _in the neck._ "

"Yes, I'm well aware I was shot in the neck, it just grazed me."

"You fainted."

"I lost consciousness."

"It's the same thing!"

The detective huffed, irritated with both John and the obnoxious machinery attached to him.

"Don't start pouting."

"I'm not pouting."

"You're pouting."

"He's right, you're pouting," chirped a familiar bitter-sweet voice.

"Go away Mycroft, I'm recovering. Don't you know I was shot in the neck?"

"Oh please, brother dear, it's just a flesh wound."

John sighed, "The nurses will get upset if there's more than one of us in here. I'll run and get a cuppa."

Mycroft watched as John left the room and rounded the corner of the hall, "You should be nicer to him."

"Shut up, Mycroft."

"He was quite beside himself."

"He's a doctor, he knew the wound wasn't that severe."

Mycroft scoffed, "Honestly Sherlock, has it not crossed your mind that the last time he saw you with that much blood on your face was on the pavement?"

Sherlock looked away guiltily, "Why are you here?"

"Because of this email," said Mycroft, holding up a crinkled and blood stained sheet of paper. "John showed it to me while they were working on you, I had to come up to sign the paperwork - family and all."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and held out a greedy hand, "Give it to me."

"Very well," said Mycroft, handing the page over, "they're releasing you first thing in the morning. I'll see to it transportation is ready."

The detective furrowed his brows at his brother.

"John didn't give any details, but he said the email might give you a location."

Sherlock waved him away, choosing instead to focus on the email. When John returned, he pretended not to notice him, but it was hard to ignore the tension in John's shoulders, the nervous wringing of his hands, the occasional rub of his knee. Perhaps Mycroft was right. Sherlock grimaced, he hated when Mycroft was right.

"I'm fine, John," said Sherlock, lowering the paper from his face and looking to his nerve-wrecked friend seated awkwardly in the only chair in the room. "Go home, get some sleep, you'll need it."

"I'd rather--"

"Out!" demanded Sherlock, waving him away much as he had Mycroft. With an angry huff, John got to his feet, "Fine, but I'll be back first thing in the morning."

Sherlock pretended to ignore him as he left the room with another angry huff. Sherlock pursed his lips, _That was a bit too easy._ With a sigh and shake of the head, Sherlock set back to the email. It was drab but the personal and friendly nature of the email contradicted the sender's impersonal and generic address. There was no original email or any other messages from the address anywhere to be found in Reggi's account, most importantly though: it hadn't been opened. Someone was becoming desperate. He skimmed over the contents again:

_Reg,_

_Despite the unexpected turn of events, things are going well. I do have some concerns about current living conditions. The storms are causing flooding, and the local predators are becoming a problem. Perhaps you can recommend safer housing? Preferably something with quieter neighbors._

_-Hunter_

 

Hunter was obviously either the shooter at Watt's office, or Hakim himself. The predators were John and Sherlock. _Local_

 

#

 

John left Bart's irritated with Sherlock's dismissal but also somewhat grateful for it. He'd overreacted to the wound and rather hoped Sherlock hadn't noticed, though he doubted it. More importantly, once Sherlock had moved past that and the painkillers, he'd have eventually realized John was neglecting to tell him something.

Collin was a game changer. He was a loose cannon and he'd already near killed Sherlock once, John would be damned if he gave the maniac a second chance. 

He hailed a cab and headed for Baker Street. He'd need a shower and a change of clothes, more ammo too. When he arrived at the flat, he was a flurry of activity. He thought over the email he'd given to Mycroft. Hunter would be Collin-likely doing most of the dirty work, he and Sherlock would be the predators, the noisy neighbors-based on old nicknames for prisoners-were no doubt Patchett and anyone else currently in captivity. They were starting to draw attention from some one. He picked up the phone and called Greg.

"John," answered Lestrade, "Glad you called-look I'm real embarrased about that crime scene today--"

"It's fine, I--"

"We had a rookie look over it, I hadn't actually been to the scene bef--"

"It's _fine_ , Greg-Listen very carefully. I need to know if there have been any calls about screaming or excessive noise at any of the warehouses or buildings along the Thames-recent-within the last couple days. "

"We get a lot of calls, John"

"Please, Greg, it's important."

Lestrade sighed, "I'll see what's come in and text Sher--"

"DO NOT send it to Sherlock."

"Why?"

John heard the low beep of another incoming call.

"He's in the hospital, don't give him motive to run off."

"John, what's going on? Do you need--"

-beep-

"Sorry Greg, I'm getting another call, just text me when you find it."

John ended the call with Greg and checked his phone, unknown number. He answered quickly.

_Hello, old friend._

"Hakim."

_"I understand you had a run in with your former colleague."_

"Tell me Hakim, what does he have on you? I can help, I can--"

There was a chuckle, _"I don't think you understand the situation."_

"I understand there is no logical reason why you'd be working for or with Reginald Watts _or_ Collin Graham."

_"How do you know they aren't working for me?"_

"Hakim, tell me--"

_"Your friend, how is he?"_

"He-" John started, _why call about that? Best to lie._ "he's dead."

_"I'm sorry my friend."_

"Hakim, that day of the riot. Did you--"

Another chuckle, sadder than most, _"I was never a very fast runner."_

John hung his head and closed his eyes, inhaling a pained breath, "All these years?"

_"I'm sorry about your friend, but I must advise you to let this go Doctor Watson, or I feel you will be--"_

"Tell Collin I'll be seeing him again soon."

Hakim sighed, _"I'm afraid, Doctor Watson, that I can't chat anymore."_

The call went dead. 

John sat down on the sofa, rather shaken by the call. _All these years, still in a cage._ John roared in frustration and punched the sofa cushion at his side, "Why even bother calling!?"

"Is this a bad time?" asked a visitor at the door. John jumped to his feet and began to draw his gun, but there stood Mycroft Holmes, umbrella in hand. "You seem rather upset."

"How long have you been standing there?"

Mycroft gestured toward the door, "It wasn't latched properly, which made it rather easy to sneak in quietly about the time you claimed someone was dead. My brother, I presume."

"He's safer if--"

Mycroft held up a hand, "I'm not here to tattle, John. What do you need?"


	11. Reginald Watts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11! 
> 
> Ch. 12 will be up soon as well, and it will wrap up the story. Thank you again to everyone who's given kudos, bookmarked, and commented! I greatly appreciate your ongoing support and patience through this project.

Sherlock grimaced when Mycroft walked into his hospital room. John had left hours ago, Lestrade was being obtuse in general and ignoring Sherlock's texts, and Mycroft had zero reason to be walking into his hospital room.

"Please, Sherlock," his brother chastised, "I'm just bringing by a fresh set of clothes.

The detective cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head at his brother, he couldn't stop himself, "Why?" he drawled.

"Your other clothes are covered in blood."

"It's 1 in the morning."

"And they're releasing you at 6."

"John will be--where's John?"

"He did rather suggest if I told you that he'd place my umbrella in some rather unpleasant places."

"Where. Is. John?"

Mycroft placed Sherlock's clothing on the foot of the hospital bed, "I believe he's--"

Sherlock sprung from the bed, ripping sensors and wires from his arms, " _Believe_?"

"He was moving towards the target when we lost contact."

"Target?"

Mycroft just looked at Sherlock. The detective sprang towards his clothes.

"There's a car out front," Mycroft informed him as he exited the room and began to handle the angry nurses. 

Sherlock was dressed and in the car in a few short minutes, going over what little information Mycroft had given him. John had left Baker Street two hours ago to head to a rather isolated manor on the outskirts of London. Suspicious activity and noises had been called in two days prior, but nothing was made of it. He'd gone inside the property one hour and twenty minutes ago, but could not be engaged after and then his signal disappeared completely.

He looked down at the little tracer in his hand. Mycroft had said to push it once both John's and the chest's location was confirmed. He should have known Mycroft would have gotten himself put in charge of the case once Watt's became an official suspect. _There must be another bug in the living room. John won't be pleased about that._ He grimaced.

"We need to move faster," Sherlock demanded of the driver.

He felt a lurch in his stomach as the car picked up speed, but he suspected it didn't have much to do with the movement of the vehicle.

 

#

 

John inhaled a deep breath. The room was filled with damp, warm air that had been stagnant too long and grown putrid with the scent of stale human blood and waste.

The plan had been a relatively simple one. He went over the steps in his head.

_Step One: Get past guards_  
 _Step Two: Find Reggi's computer and put Mycroft's stupid USB stick thingy in it._  
 _Step Three: Find the chest and destroy it_  
 _Step Four: Find Hakim and Patchett_  
 _Step Five: Run like hell_

He'd managed past the guards and into the manor with relative ease. He'd even managed to get upstairs, find the study with Reggi's personal computer and plug in the USB thingy Mycroft had given him. It was when he was heading back downstairs that they'd finally noticed him, the damned idiots. John hated to think that Collin's arrogant smile would be the last thing he might see, since it was the last thing he'd seen before they'd shoved the damn black bag over his head, bound his wrist with a zip tie, frisked him, and marched him down three flights of stairs. Judging by the groans and metal gate clanging shut, John could guess he was in some sort of dungeon below the manor. Collin had gotten in a few good kicks before Watts had called him off and they'd left, John wasn't sure if they'd left him without a guard or if the guard they'd left was just abnormally quiet. 

_Three out of fives not bad, considering,_ he mentally congratulated himself. 

By his count it had been at least an hour he'd gone without movement or contact. Per their agreement, Mycroft would no doubt be telling Sherlock by now. John let out another heavy sigh, of the top ten worst ways this could of gone, he supposed he was currently only at a seven. 

Well, _if_ Sherlock was on his way, the least John could do was not be tied up when he got here. 

John tried to assess the situation a bit further. He was alone, in some sort of cell, with his hands zip tied behind his back with the backs of his wrists together, and he had a bag on his head. He heard yet another groan from his left and decided it was past time to confirm how many others were in the room.

"Patchett, is that you?"

"You aren't likely to get much of an answer from him, my friend."

"Hakim?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Getting tea, what does it look like?"

"It looks like you've been taken captive."

John ventured to stand, no one stopped him, "Did they seriously leave us unguarded?"

Hakim chuckled, "No one's ever escaped, why bother?"

"Surely they, I mean, honestly?"

"They are probably outside the door at the top of the steps. It's the only way in or out of this damned basement."

"How close are you to me?"

"I can get that bag off your head if that's what your asking."

John shuffled off to his right, towards Hakim's voice. He felt a gentle hand stop him after a few steps and then the bag lifted off of him. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the low light in the room that came off a small lamp in Hakim's cell. A perk of being a good prisoner. The first things John saw were the familiar chestnut eyes of the boy from all those years ago, but then the scars came into view and the doctor found himself looking away with guilt. 

"Turn around, I'll get that zip tie off."

John did as requested and allowed Hakim to shim off the tie, John gratefully rubbed at his wrists and stretched out his shoulders. He looked once more to his prison mate, "All these years?"

"They killed all the others."

"They kil--but--"

"Such a big secret, Doctor. Did you think they'd leave us be?"

John swallowed a hard lump in his throat, "I had hoped that maybe..." He shook his head, "I'm so sorry, Hakim, if I'd known I'd--"

Hakim held up a hand, "You can get out of here?"

"I think so."

"The chest is on the first level of the basement, right above us. It must be destroyed."

Patchett groaned again and John turned to take in the damage. He fought the urge to turn away again. Collin had clearly been allowed his time. Fingernails gone, whip lashes across the chest, both eyes burnt out. Judging from his frail frame, festering wounds, and jaundiced face, he'd been here longer than he'd been reported missing. Even with proper medical attention, the doctor in John knew he wouldn't last the night.

"You said you can get out?" Hakim pulled back his attention, "Then get out and deal with that chest. You know better than anyone what it contains."

"How do _you_ know that?"

"My father knew you were a good man. You were the only one he would have told, and since they weren't in the floor boards of our home, I..." he looked down at his feet, burdened with guilt and shame. John heard the tears when he said, "I'm so sorry my friend."

John pulled off his shoes. Mycroft had given him several small tools in case something went wrong. Things had most definitely gone wrong. From his left shoe he pulled two small metal tools that would be enough to pick the lock with, he set to work quickly and when the lock latch came free and he was able to move the door to his cell he thought he might kiss Sherlock the next time he saw him for demanding he teach him how to pick a lock. 

He moved towards Hakim's cell door but the man moved his hand in the way, "Now is not the time. Go, before they move everything."

John pushed the two little tools into his hands, "I will be back for you."

"I believe you."

John looked for something he could use as weapon, and found himself holding a rather off-colored but empty chamber pot from his cell. Quietly, he began climbing the steps.

"The third one from the top creaks," warned Hakim. John turned to give a nod and felt a pang of regret at seeing the scrawny man in the cage watching him with so much hope in his eyes. John continued up the stairs in his socked feet, with chamber pot in hand. He stepped over the third step, reached the top and listened as carefully as he could through the door. 

"Boss sounds like he's wanting to move elsewhere," said a man on the right side of the door. _Swing the door open into him, throw him off balance._

Another man that sounded as if he was stationed across a small hall grunted in response.

"Think we'll have to take the breathing cargo with us?" asked the first.

Again, the second man just grunted.

"Do you even know how to talk? I hate sharing duty with you."

There was the shuffle of a newspaper.

John inhaled deeply and readied himself. He'd need to move fast and pray there really were only two of them. With a steady hand he took hold of the doorknob, he hunkered himself as low as he could, ready to spring forward. Swiftly he wrenched the door handle, swung the door into the man on the right, knocking him to the ground. The second man, easily twice John's size, was on his feet quickly. John side-stepped a thrust of the bigger man's fist and swung the chamber pot in his left hand, slamming it against the back of the man's neck with a sickening thud. The man went down, though John knew it wouldn't last long. He turned his attention to the smaller, first man who was pulling his gun and beginning to aim it at John. The soldier moved quickly, twisting the pistol from the man's hand while twisting his arm into a lock. With a single sharp blow, the Captain bludgeoned the man in the temple with the handle of the pistol. Then, the doctor checked the man's pulse to see that he was still alive.

He listened, no running, or gunfire, the door at the top of the second set of stairs remained calm. The room was smaller than the sub-basement below. It was just a storage cellar, though the only things it stored at the moment were two unconscious guards and a chest that had cost far too many people their lives. John took the pistol from the man at his feet and tucked it into the back of of his trousers, under his shirt. He'd put on an old, plain black shirt for this particular endeavor. A jumper hadn't seemed right for the occasion. He did a quick search of the two men, and took the second man's gun as well in favor of the chamber pot. 

Just as John placed his foot on the bottom step, the door at the top swung open.

There stood Sherlock, zip tied and bagged, Collin's gun pressed into his back.


	12. Collin Graham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it guys, the last chapter.
> 
> You have no idea how much your positive feedback has meant to me! A thousand thank yous!!

_Well, shit._

Sherlock was just tall enough, and his coat bulky enough, that Collin didn't seem to be able to quite see what was below him just yet. John took the safest risk and rushed back through the open door into the sub basement without a word, silently thanking God Collin was just as short as he was. He jumped off the steps, rather than walking down them the whole way.

"My friend, what are you--?"

"Shhh," John said as he retreated down the wooden steps and pressed himself into the dark corner space on the opposite side of the room from Hakim's small lantern. It was a piss poor hiding space but it was the best he could manage. By the time he'd made it down the steps he could already hear Collin swearing about the downed guards and then at Sherlock who'd obviously made some sardonic comment. There was a clatter of noise and an "oof" from Sherlock followed by stamping back up the stairs and a command from Collin, "Get him in the cage."

John found himself thanking God again, this time that Collin was an idiot and didn't realize John had to still be down here.

There was another shuffle, a few angrily shouted commands, and then Sherlock on the steps. The detective stepped carefully, still managing to look graceful even with a bag on his head. He was followed by a rather large armed guard, but size doesn't matter much when a bullet hits your temple. He raised his stolen pistol, shouted "Vatican Cameo", and fired a single shot. Sherlock had ducked and rushed a few steps forward at John's warning so when the guard dropped it wasn't directly onto the detective. 

"John, I'm not sure that's how we agreed to use that," said Sherlock, standing on the steps, tied and bagged and still looking cocky.

"Shut up," retorted the Captain. He moved forward quickly to remove the bag and tie. Sherlock's neck wound was opened and bleeding again, though not nearly as profusely as before. "How long?"

"What?"

"Before your brother sends in his men, how long?"

"Ten," replied Sherlock, eyes adjusting to the low light. "You must be Hakim."

The man smiled, "I thought you said he was dead?"

"I lied."

"Mycroft said you were just supposed to be placing a tracker."

"Did he actually say that?"

"It was implied."

"Like I said, I lied."

"I'm beginning to think you have a chronic problem."

The voice that responded was from the top of the stairs, "I'm beginning to think that too." They turned to see Reggi, gun drawn, with Collin behind him. "Go warn the others to get ready for a fight, and get a car ready, we need to leave in the next ten minutes." Collin was quick to follow orders and was soon gone from sight.

Reggi lifted the gun, "Sorry to do this, John, but with only ten minutes to spare I'll need to get rid of the speaking evidence quickly. How fortunate all four of you are here in one place."

John had so many questions. Why was he doing this? Why had he bothered to call John in the first place? Why get him and Sherlock involved? Why make it so public?

Instead of asking all the dozens of questions buzzing in his head, he sighed, and lifted his own gun.

"Oh please, John. You wouldn--"

Reggi's words were cut short with another single shot.

Sherlock stared down at him, wide eyed. John didn't have time to think about it, and instead turned to Hakim. "Give me the tools," he demanded, thrusting his hand through the bars, "we need to get you out of here."

"Leave me, old friend, you don't have time."

"I have plenty of time to get you out of here."

"And then what? Then I'm arrested."

"You're a victim Hakim, not a--"

"I'd still be questioned. They'll want to know everything he knew."

John looked at Hakim, really looked. He was too skinny, scarred, terrified, tired.

"We'll keep you safe, help you--"

"No," he said, "You may fool others but I know when you're lying Doctor Watson. You're sad when you lie."

"Don't be stupid, just give me the--"

"It's a child's intuition, to know when someone lies. To know when the comfort isn't based on truth. I still remember. Leave me and go."

"I want to help," John demanded.

"Then don't let anyone take me. Let my story end here. I just, I can't anymore. I was silent for so many years about my father's work, and when I opened my mouth," his words stuttered with a catching breath, and tears started to escape him as he spoke, "He promised John, they promised it would end if I told them where my father's work was hidden and then, when I did--"

"They realized what I'd done."

"Reggi would keep the seeds, sell them for cash, and Collin would keep the treasure," Sherlock added from behind him.

John was silent for a moment, unable to tear his gaze from Hakim. He was just like his father. 

"Your father's work," said John, "it needs to be destroyed. But the chest, the chest will explode if someone tampers with the lock."

Hakim silently handed over the lock pick tools and let John go to work. Soon the door swung open. "Both of you head upstairs," John quietly commanded, "I'll follow in a moment."

For once, Sherlock didn't question him, didn't so much as remind him of the short time they had to get out of the way of the MI5 unit headed their way.

John waited until they'd gone into the basement room above before stepping over to Patchett's cell. He heard the shallow, pained breaths. The man wasn't even aware of everything that had just happened, he was likely only aware of his pain. 

"Patchett?"

Not so much as a grunt of recognition or a change in breathing. The doctor in him knew there'd be no saving him, and a fire or cave in was no way to die. 

He fired another shot.

On the way back up the stairs he retrieved Reggi's gun and slipped it loosely into his front pocket. When he reached Hakim and Sherlock they were both silent and unquestioning. John handed Hakim the gun in his hand and the lock picking tools, "Give us just a few minutes to get out of the house. I was there when Boom Boom set it up. The explosion will be enough to take out anyone in this room and likely anyone above or below it. 

"Thank you, my friend."

John gave him a military nod.

"You're lying again," said Hakim.

"Yeah," said John, "truth is, I'm not alright with this plan."

"Go," said Hakim, "you're giving me a gift."

John didn't have time to argue, it was going to be difficult enough to get them out of here without being shot and Mycroft's goons would be blasting their way in at any minute. At this point the biggest threats were being caught in crossfire and being caught by Collin. John handed a wary Sherlock the gun in his front pocket and took the second pistol from behind his back.

"Honestly John, you pick them up like stray kittens," said Sherlock.

John only rolled his eyes and headed up the stairs, "Please tell me you know the fastest way to get out of here."

"Two right turns, a left, and then we're in the garage."

"The garage? With Collin."

"That or we risk being caught up in the explosion or in the MI5 unit's entrance."

"Right, garage."

"Two rights. And a left."

John opened the door, it was eerily quiet. He inhaled and moved forward. They rounded the corner quickly and encountered two more of Reggi's guards, John shot to disarm rather than kill and Sherlock didn't actually bother to raise his gun.

"You could help!" John chastised as they passed the two groaning guards, who were clutching their injured hands on the floor.

"You seem to have it covered," said Sherlock, "and I don't like guns."

"You didn't seem to mind them when you were shooting our wall."

"That was a ballistics experiment!" answered Sherlock, "turn here."

John pulled Sherlock by the coat back around the corner as several shots were fired their way, "We should probably have this conversation later."

"Obvious."

John crouched and risked a peek around the corner. One man. John fired three times before he managed to disarm their would-be killer. "Going to run out of bullets before we reach the garage at the point."

"You could adopt another one," said the detective.

With a huff and a glare, John took the downed guard's gun from where he'd dropped it on the floor and stuffed it into the back of his trousers.

Just as they were about to make their left turn into the garage, the explosion roared. The house rattled, there was shouting to be heard in any direction, followed by the sounds of the MI5 unit stampeding into the house from all angles. This all would have been a tremendous distraction had John not already been distracted by Collin's tackling him to the ground. Collin had worked swiftly, taking him to the ground and knocking the gun from his hand, and while John was winded and restrained, Collin kicked Sherlock's knee, bringing him to the ground with a painful crunch. There was no time to react before Collin was punching him, once, twice, three times in the eye, nose, and eye again. John could count the fractures already and deeply regretted that he hadn't gotten in a better shot back at the office.

"Vatican Cameo, John."

He would have ducked, but he was already on the floor, so instead he just watched as Collin's head splattered red and his body slumped forward.

"I thought we hadn't agreed to use it that way?"

"We should go before someone shoots us," said Sherlock, struggling to stand.

John pushed Collin off of him, "Stop moving, you're going to make it worse." John stood and then squatted to get Sherlock's arm around him, "You're going to need a surgery for that."

Sherlock groaned.

"Probably be in a cast for a while, a boot at the least."

Another groan as they hobbled into garage, where they encountered three dead guards and two MI5 gunmen. John gave an awkward wave of the hand, "Mycroft Holmes would appreciate it if you did not shoot his brother or his brother's blogger."

The gunmen closest to them turned her attention to the radio attached at her shoulder, "I've got Holmes and Watson in the garage, need medical care."

John and Sherlock both allowed themselves to collapse against the unused getaway car.

_Step One: Get past guards_  
 _Step Two: Find Reggi's computer and put Mycroft's stupid USB stick thingy in it._  
 _Step Three: Find the chest and destroy it_  
 _Step Four: Find Hakim and Patchett_  
 _Step Five: Run like hell_

_Well, four out of fives not bad._

He flinched at the thought.

 

#

 

When Sherlock woke after his surgery it was to the sound of John berating Mycroft.

"And whose fault is that? What were you thinking sending him in before the--"

"He was rather insistent that--"

"Since when did you listen to your brother?"

He heard an odd huff from his brother. _Is that what it sounds like when Mycroft loses an argument?_

"Shut up, both of you," Sherlock groaned, "it's just some torn ligaments, honestly."

"Forgetting the torn stitches from where you were shot in the neck?" spat John.

"Flesh wound."

"Deep bruising along the ribs and a mild concussion," continued John.

"Have you seen your face?" retorted Sherlock, "Just how many stitches do you have?

"Least I can walk."

"Can you even see out of that eye?"

"Children, do stop arguing."

"Shut up, Mycroft," responded both the doctor and the detective.

With an airy sigh, the eldest Holmes retreated from the room, causing the pair of them to fall into a small fit of giggles. 

"So?" said John.

"So?"

"Are you going to amaze me with that brilliant mind and tell me what happened?"

"Ah, yes. Simple really, in the end."

"Simple was it?"

"There was key information missing, but when I saw Hakim in the sub-basement, it all made sense."

John pulled the little visitor's chair up next to Sherlock's bedside, "Go on then."

"It all starts with the riot. After the riot, the Hovel was closed down but there were still witnesses, so Watts would have been given the assignment and he'd have picked a few of the more...lethal of the men to hunt down the survivors and kill them."

"No need for a doctor, then."

Sherlock nodded, "Along the way they would have found Hakim and his remaining family. The mother and sisters were killed early on, perhaps on accident, but Watts determined that Hakim had enough information about his family's work that it made it worth while to keep him alive. No doubt imprisoned and tortured for--" Sherlock noted the tension in John's shoulders and forming fists and cleared his throat, "Hakim said they'd promised to end it. Watts was desperate. Among his emails were several messages which suggested he'd soon be forced to retire, he simply wasn't providing the government with what they wanted. Scorned, and knowing Hakim had details, he made a last ditch effort."

"Promised to kill Hakim if he told him everything he knew about his parent's work."

Sherlock nodded.

"But then why wasn't this all done by the military, why the big show?"

"Because, once Hakim told him what the seeds did, Watts realized he could make far more profit selling the remaining research to foreign governments."

"Forced retirement, you said?"

"Yes."

John gave a weary sigh, that noise Sherlock recognized has his inability to understand petty motives for horrid crimes. 

Sherlock continued, "Hakim likely knew at least a small degree of the seeds potential, he also likely knew where his father had hidden them. Watts would have gone looking, but he couldn't go personally and he'd need someone who had military training, was no longer enlisted, and lacked a moral compass."

"Collin."

"Collin would have arrived to find nothing. Watts did some digging and discovered your presence there directly after Malik's death and pieced together that you would have hidden them in the chest. Now, in need of the keys and cover, they constructed a plot. They promised to kill Hakim, and they intended to, in their own time. The dressed him up, paraded him in front of CCTV, scripted phone calls, so that when the time came the authorities would be looking for Hakim and not them. No doubt we'll find they arranged a false prison break in the records for Hakim."

"He was their scapegoat?"

"Essentially."

"So, the murders, the public displays, everything was just--"

"Show."

"And us?"

"Me specifically?"

John nodded.

"I've been contacted for many high level security investigations before. Watts likely knew I'd get involved, your involvement made it easier. By helping us, he took suspicion away from himself and was able to keep a closer eye on our whereabouts and investigation."

"And Hakim went along with it because he..." John's voice trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence.

Sherlock reached out and placed a comforting hand on the back of John's white knuckled fist that rested on his knee, "He died a good death."

They sat in silence for several minutes. John biting back anger and tears, Sherlock simply giving him time.

"Now I've a question for you, John."

John didn't respond, but Sherlock took his silence as permission to go on.

"Why did you kill Reginald?"

John looked up, "Why did you kill Collin?"

"He was going to kill you."

"Well, there you go."

"It's more than that. There were many men there trying to kill me, plenty in the past. Generally you aim to disarm, not to kill. Given there are a few rare exceptions. Why Reginald?"

"Because..." John looked away guiltily, "Because he was going to kill you, because he _didn't_ kill Hakim, because he knew about the seeds, because he was a monster, because I trusted him and..."

Sherlock contemplated this and finally just said, "And they say I'm the dangerous one."

"Shut up."

"No really, I suddenly consider myself lucky to be alive."

"Sherlock--"

"Bit of a double standard you know, lying to everyone and then getting upset when someone lies to you."

John crossed his arms and slumped in his chair for a pout, "I'd punch you if I didn't think I'd tear your stitches again."

Sherlock just laughed.

 

#

 

The hospital released Sherlock early, mostly out of pure annoyance and because he lived with a doctor.

By the time they'd made it up to the flat with Sherlock on his horrid crutches, John was already counting down the days until Sherlock would be allowed to move about on his own. Sherlock plopped himself down on the couch, Mrs. Hudson was fussing over him and chastising the both of them for being reckless.

John smiled the whole time, which only made her angrier and eventually she left in a bit of a huff. He'd have to go down and apologize for the both of them, but he'd do it later. Instead, he made tea while he listened to Sherlock whine.

"How am I supposed to get anything done with these horrible things!" Sherlock droned on, "It's the 21st century, has modern medicine honestly not managed to come up with something better than an aluminum stick to assist with walking on an injured leg?" He was headed for a full sulk on the couch. 

"I'm trapped! John! I'll be stuck in this flat!"

John shook his head with a smile and walked into the sitting room with two cups of tea. "Planning on getting around were you?" he said, handing the tea over, "Going to do the shopping and clean up a bit?"

Sherlock glared at him, but the doctor responded with a smile. His smile, the one that made Sherlock stare.

"Now I know you're doing it on purpose."

"You'll never prove it," John taunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That brings The Tontine to an end. I do hope you've enjoyed it and that it's satisfied your questions. 
> 
> I'll be doing some editing/clean-up of recently posted chapters in the next few days, just fyi.
> 
> Thanks for your continued support! It's meant a lot and truly helped motivate me!
> 
> \----
> 
> It's been suggested that continue with these characters and extend their romantic relationship. I'd love to know your thoughts on this!


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